Whitewashed
by arctique48
Summary: He ran from them and they forgot him, but now, a prisoner of science, he needs her help. DHr.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc. belongs to JKR.

* * *

**

How long he's been running for is irrelevant.

How far and where to, likewise.

For an eternity it revolved around what_ from_, but now, now he tells himself he's moved on.

"_Sir, you are going to have to tell us what happened to you."_

Some days he'd think about a dark tower on an even darker night, a dark deed with darker yet consequences. He'd remember the exact moment when green faded to black, complete and suffocating when all possible light hid from him. (_They left him alone.)_

_"Tell me, Sir," it grates like mockery but she is too genuine to know anything of the truth, "Please, tell us, this Harry Potter, what is he going to do?"_

Some days he'd feel the same regret, the same shame and fear that drove him to leave everything he knew, and he'd leave again, buy a new 'house', another muggle hut and transform it into something like home but not close enough to cause pain. On days like those he'd think of _them_. Not the ones who keep him now. Not the ones who chased him, or even the ones he feared. No. He thought of the only people left who could help him (in all the world, the only people with the will and reason to say no).

_"What do you mean? Sir, please tell us, who are these 'Granger' and 'Weasley'? What do you mean by the word 'muggle'? We're not going to hurt you, we're here to help."_

"You never run! You stand and fight!" Who said it? Not important. But with this one phrase he likes to think he can overthrow the whole concept of Gryffindor heroism. The _real_ question: What do you do when the ones you run from are not the ones you're fighting? What happens when you're running from your future, from _yourself?_ When you're told you're not a bad person but you have no way of being anything else… _What has he left'_? But that question hurts more than the others so he casts it aside hoping it will go away with time (_because everything has a time and place to die. Even the past)._

_"Sir, you say you've lost something, what is it you've lost?… No. We didn't steal anything….Sir, don't get aggressive or I'll be forced to call security… Sir, we don't have anything of yours…What wand?"_

There is too much guilt. He thinks of before and imagines Granger accusing him of heartlessness, and Weaslette telling him to leave off Potter and go find a newborn puppy to kick. Then he thinks of their faces were they to see him now. (There is too much shame, too.) "_You want me to fear you? Is that it? Well, I'm sorry, Malfoy, but I can't. You're nothing but a petty bully chasing after your father's shadow. You say you'll kill me, but even you are human and a coward at that. Killing isn't for cowards, Malfoy, you think you could cast that spell on resentment alone? You don't have the strength to hate that much." ("You don't know me, Granger.") _He's beginning to wonder if she knew him better than he knew himself… but that's absurd. They never spoke, she just observed what everyone from his father to Dumbledore already knew. Weakness. He was saturated in it. _"It takes a weak man to run." (Oh yeah, Snape? Well, you're not strong enough to stop me.)_

_Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. He wonders sometimes if it's a muggle brand of torture. The woman, the one that makes him think of Granger with her oblivious drive to help what she does not understand, tells him these machines will help them help him. He doesn't think she's lying anymore, just that she's more ignorant than she's willing to admit._

_"Sir, please hold still, it's just a simple sedative, you'll be conscious, just sleepy… I can't connect you to the computer unless I give you this… I'm not going to hurt you." ("Like you could, muggle.")_

He lies on his bed now. Staring at the white washed ceiling (it stops him looking at the concrete walls). They're outside with clipboards and they think he can't see them, but he can, even if it's only in his mind he can see them. Dissecting his sleep induced mutterings, analysing every breath he takes. They sedate him and scan him and the tests reveal nothing, but it was long ago he stopped telling them there was nothing wrong, that they were filth and didn't have the right to understand. That he knew magic and if they hadn't _stolen his wand_ he'd be able to show them what it meant to be a wizard, show them what he'd been trained to do all his life. (_"Come near me and I'll fucking hurt you, muggle."_)

* * *

Down the hall two figures face each other. One is tall with greying hair and a sad, sharp expression; the other is young, pretty and pale with dark brown eyes. 

"What should we do?" Asks the woman.

"What _can _we do? His complex is not unique, there are enough cases dating back _decades_, centuries even, to almost justify the existence of this 'secret world' he thinks he comes from. That many cases of people convinced they've stumbled into the realm of 'muggles' and not a single one has stayed alive long enough to prove a thing. 93.6 percent suicide rate. We could keep him in a padded cell but if he's the same as the others before him he could rupture his brain with thought and meditation alone."

"But what about Harry Potter? This Dark Lord? You saw his tattoo."

"Dr Grey, a tattoo is a tattoo and Harry Potter is a figment of a confused man's mind. You heard what his neighbour said, four years is a very long time to never leave the four walls of your house."

"But this Dark Lord. That's… not consistent with the other records."

"Look, maybe he just had a little too much Lord of the Rings as a child? He's not a wizard, the test prove he doesn't have schizophrenia, multiple personality disorder or, in fact, _anything_ we've ever heard of. He's a medical mystery and as scientists we have a duty to help try and solve it."

"But we can't sell him out!"

"Dr Grey, we don't have the funds to keep him here…"

"They'll use him in experimentation! He's a human being, not a lab rat!"

"He'll help their _research_! Scientific progress! A breakthrough could _save lives_. He's a sacrifice necessary to our work."

"He's not a sacrifice we're eligible to make. That man is not insane, his un-acclimatised. The tests have proven nothing. Your 'surgery' has proven _nothing_! The fact that he calls us 'muggles' and demands to be called 'sir' does not merit an international research expedition into the inner workings of his mind!"

"He thinks he's a wizard."

"He's been alone long enough to think a lot of things. I think the only thing we can do is keep trying. If we unravel enough of his past we may be able to find the _cause_. All we need is what he's running from."

"You've got a month, Isabelle. But I can't give you any longer than that."

"I know," the woman replies quietly. "Thank you."

* * *

He asked where he was once and knew from the moment the words left his mouth it was a mistake. (_"Don't ask when you're not ready for the answer, boy." ("But I am ready.") His father was right.)_ The muggle girl, the one like Granger with the sad smile and who tried to act regretful enough for the both of them, had told him that they'd had him handed over by the police, that he'd killed a man without leaving a mark on him, that he was wanted for murder and it had been her job to prove his insanity or he'd be imprisoned… But then she hung her head, as he watched in horror, desperately trying to work out which death they'd caught him for and how they managed to disarm him of his wand. She whispered almost to his feet as she stood the other side of the glass wall: 

"I can't prove a thing. You're not insane but we suspect you have dangerous abilities… My colleague has contacts in a research team specialising in advanced neuro-gateways… I have to the end of the month to prove you're nothing special or dangerous or you'll be handed either to the court or the scientists… I'm trying… But you won't even tell me your name."

_Don't ask if you're not ready for the answer_. He watched her tears in a black bubble of numbness.

"I hate to say this, it goes against everything I've ever learnt, but I've spent more time with you over the past month than anyone else…and I think I'm beginning to believe what you say about 'magic'… You… you didn't shatter the window in your last room by force, you'd be cut to ribbons. The tests we got back, the ones focusing on one part of your brain showed nothing at all and yet, there was activity in a section that's never been recorded before… I could be possible. The existence of magic." She's talking almost to herself now. " It could just be another aspect of the human mind we're yet to come close to revealing." She looks up now, eyes brimming and a hint of fear shining through. "That's what got Dr Thompson so intrigued.

"No discoveries I make will get you out of here anymore. The test results we have are enough to have every neuro-scientist on the planet circling like vultures.

"Is there no one I can contact? Anyone, just a name and I'll do everything I can. This world you speak of, is there no one who will help you? Family, friends, schoolmates from this Hogwarts? Please. I don't want to watch them take you away, I've seen the products of their experiments… you may have killed but no one deserves that. It's a fate worse than death… I'll do whatever I can but I'll need your help."

Pleading eyes. "Please."

He shudders and shakes his head. There is no one. "Not a soul would listen…" he rasps,"you'd be dead before they heard you out…" He doesn't know why he says this, but something in him is relishing the chance to talk to someone (she looks so like Granger it's almost possible to consider her a witch… dirty blooded but human). "Anyone with any interest in me is on the loosing side of a war. They hate your kind and everything you represent."

Eyes light up, bright and eager. "A war. Is that what you run from? And Harry Potter? Is he the enemy?"

"He's the saviour, and I hate him more than you can imagine."

"Would he help you?"

A disgusted face and he sneers, "You know… I think he probably would. I wouldn't deserve it but he believes in second chances."

"Could I contact him?" She's trying so hard to find a hope.

"The Prophet said he rarely visits the muggle world anymore. That would be near impossible."

"I could try."

"Don't."

"But-"

He feels anger building in his hopelessness and in the rage that clouds his vision he sees her face warped. In the glare of the strip lighting on glass he sees the reflections of ghosts. Tears and he spins to face the shadow of Hermione Granger… "Get out of my face, Mudblood! I don't need your pity."

He falls to his knees and from outside the pale woman watches in numb pity. He's said it so many times she thinks the mudblood is Hermione Granger… he often accuses her of being a 'filthy muggle half-breed' in his sleep. Dark eyes hardening, Dr Grey steps back. She will find this Hermione Granger; from what she's heard in the blond man's drugged hallucinations this girl, or woman as she will be now, is a 'witch' who bridges the gap between the real world and the one within the prisoner-patient's head.

"Find Hermione Granger and I find the cause…" She mutters to herself. A final glance at the huddled from through the glass and she pages a nurse to give him another tranquilliser dosage. "Find the cause and we might just save him." She turns her back and readies herself to leave.

* * *

**AN:** Thoughts? I'm unsure whether it would be best to continue or abandon, and I'm not sure if I was too vague here… Please give any feedback possible. 


	2. Chapter 2

**  
Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc. belongs to JKR. **

* * *

One hundred and sixty four feet below the ground, sitting alongside a second story window overlooking a park, there stood a desk. This particular desk was made of pine, covered in various knocks and scrapes and sporting a large number of coffee stains. Its legs were groaning.

"Gra-anger."

"I'm busy."

On top of the desk were a great many pieces of paper, each one impossibly important and perfectly colour coded with post-it notes. There were papers detailing law propositions, human rights acts, social conduct decrees and missing persons lists. "A Werewolf's Right To Wolfsbane", "Give Blood – save a vampire", "Death Eater Identification – the Origin of the Dark Mark".

"Granger, it's important."

"Of course it is, Zabini, but I'm sure it can wait."

Behind the desk was a chair. A rather unusual chair at that, plastic and muggle, it had five legs, five wheels and an adjustable back.

"No, seriously, this one you will want to see."

It also spun.

"Blaise, I honestly am touched you enjoyed the shirt, but I really do not need to see every muggle item you now add to your wardrobe in honour of my contribution."

An unusual desk for an unusual occupant you could say. A normal-ish looking young woman, clearly took her work seriously, high on wizarding (and non-wizarding) rights and a famed warrior of the war that so recently threatened to rip magical Britain apart. (They say she helped to save their world.) (She denies it all.) ("_It was Harry. All I did was what anyone would do for a friend. I don't pretend to take one shred of the credit."_)

"Well, Miss Granger, were you to actually look up you'd see that I was in fact not talking about alternative fashion and instead about this particularly interesting piece of paper…"

The unusual Miss Granger paused her quill hand. Inked nib hovering she looked up.

"You have my full attention, Zabini."

Her colleague (co-worker, employee, employer, tormentor or patron depending on who exactly you choose ask) grinned, fluttering a muggle, computer printed sheet.

"Someone's looking for you, Granger. Care to tell me what it is you've done?"

The normalish, ethically superior war hero stared.

"What?"

* * *

Night: memories wrack his body like spasms of pain.

Neon strips of lighting glare off of glass partitioning and polished floors. You'd think it would be cold, indeed, it looks colder than a morgue, but a small heater whirrs inefficiently behind a metal gauze (it would appear self harm is a risk his captors are not willing to take). He sighs and mourns vaguely for the loss of his magic. (_Wizarding heaters wouldn't make such a damn rattle._)

A blanket. Unimpressive in its design. Grey to match the walls and floor and the beams of the artificial light as they fall from grey ceiling panels beyond the grey tinted glass. (_To see the world through clouds of grey: "It's so much more than black and white, Malfoy. Think. You may be a coward, but you're not stupid.")_ When the heater is off it's not enough to keep him warm, when the heater's on it makes him overheat. He doesn't like the blanket much. (_Raised in silk and velvet with crystal glasses and crushed diamonds, it's a miracle he likes anything at all.)_

His arm twinges and with a half-hearted growl he moves to sit up; pumped full of chemicals they never gave him the chance to understand. He feels pressure at his temples and in another life (_his _other life) he would have put every ounce of his strength into holding back the tears of frustration, but alone in a cell with nothing but a clinical blanket and a stuttering heater for company he's almost grateful for the sound. (Something different to devote his attentions to; a distraction from the regurgitations of his mind.)

Sweat beads on his forehead and he falls forward. _Falling back to the beginning… Back to when he had a choice. _

_-_

A tower: dark sky and black deeds. His hands shook while he told himself he was feeling nothing but the cold.

"_Come over to the right side Draco… you are not a killer…' _

_A cornered boy stared at a dying man._

"_But I got this far, didn't I?" voice slow, almost tentative, '"They thought I'd die in the attempt, but I'm here… and you're at my mercy…"_

"_No, Draco," It was the final judgement. Soft, spoken so quietly. "It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now."_

_Wavering his hand almost fell (_it was nothing but the cold)

He'd thought that he wouldn't even see the sun rise the next day if Harry Potter had his way… How wrong he had been. They told him he was _there_. That the Boy-Who-Lived saw his most impressive display of cowardice yet. They told him not only that, but the bastard actually felt sorry for him and blamed Snape. He didn't bother questioning where they got this from anymore.

"_You've done well, Draco. Exceeded expectations in fact. Your father would be proud." An uncertain pause. "_Crucio_." _

"_You will do better next time or your mother will die."_

He sometimes wonders whether they had (_have) _the right to make him that scared. But that makes him think of Granger with her "_You have No Right!"_'s and her stupid Gryffindor-isms and perfect grades that made his father let him think he knew the meaning of true pain. And with her he thinks of Potter. And from him he thinks of Dumbledore and the tower and his damn spasming muscles when he could have made himself a hero among demons.

-

He still likes to think something (_anything_) within his power could have changed things.

* * *

"Send Remus in."

The house elf nodded and trotted out of the room eagerly, large ears flapping wildly through their holes in the bright coloured hat. A free elf and a happy one, even in times of stress the sight made her proud.

"So, what do you think?"

She raised her eyes to meet the intense gaze of Blaise Zabini.

Blaise's sole line of work did not consist of her small department, he also worked with an obscure branch of the Department of Mysteries that focussed on tracking and storing every muggle enquiry made via internet or telephone containing the keywords 'wizard', 'muggle', 'squib', 'Hogwarts' among others and any names of current Ministry employees. Of course there were countless numbers of hoaxes and the system was currently being refined, but this time it would seem he had struck gold.

"What _can_ I think?" she cast her eyes back to the paper he'd so recently bought in, "A muggle doctor of psychiatry working in a top-secret lab for MI5… on top-secret cases that are so secret our bugs can't even get any information on them, sends an anonymous email, several calls and at least two letters, doing everything within her power to remain unknown as the sender, looking for a person named Hermione Granger?" Features pale and eyes worried she looked again through at the sheet of paper. "I honestly don't know what to believe... How would she even know my name?"

"Hermione?"

She looked up, a strained smile at the sight of her old professor in the doorway. The window had been jammed shut and the room was smothered in anti-eavesdropping charms. Lupin raised an eyebrow.

"Is everything alright?" asked the old werewolf, glancing between Zabini's concerned face and Hermione's white knuckles as the gripped a leaf of paper.

"We're not entirely sure," answered the African pureblood, dark eyes downcast. Briefly squeezing Hermione's shoulder he took the paper from her grip and handed it to Lupin, "Why don't you decide for yourself?"

For almost two years now this unlikely trio had formed the newest and most controversial branch of the Ministry of Magic, They worked with and against the Ministry in promoting, correcting and furthering magical and non-magical relations, doing what they could to integrate magical minorities back into society, dispelling prejudices and the newly-sprung urban myths surrounding the Second War. For Hermione it was a dream come true, for Remus it was a chance he'd never dreamed to receive and for Blaise it was a project, something to occupy his mind and money (though for all his sarcasm and claims of indifference Hermione was certain he felt something for their Cause, indeed, he'd given up a lot when he agreed to her pleas to act as her patron).

Over the past twenty-four months they had done huge amounts of work with the Aurors, rehabilitating orphans and others affected drastically by the War, gaining them an enormous amount of public support and with the backing of Harry Potter and every one of the remaining Order Veterans it was hardly surprising their standing within the Ministry grew with every won trial.

"How much do we know about this woman?" Remus asked Blaise.

"Everything." He responded simply. "I had Berkley track him as a personal favour, no official beauro'crap getting in the way. We know her favourite colour, what she watches on her television, the passwords for her four email accounts, her dead father's birthday, her fingerprints, her DNA, credit card numbers, bank account codes, everything. Everything apart from what _exactly_ it is she does for a living."

"Do you think she's dangerous?"

"Well… Personally, she reminded me of Granger here, you know, after she's been on one of her house elf liberation rants. Only more… desperate. She's looking for you for something. I don't think she really knows what it is herself, but she's searching as hard as she can."

"What do you think she should do? Hermione, that is."

Blaise looked surprised, despite the fact Remus never gave him anything to back it he had always felt the older man never looked at him as more than a lazy aristocrat, the fact that his opinion was being asked meant…something.

"I think she should get on the Floo to Harry Potter and arrange herself a secret unofficial escort to an obscure rendezvous point of her choice. I think she should get to the bottom of this."

Lupin said nothing, turning to Hermione, both men waiting for her consensus.

A quiet pause before she tilted her chin in decision. "I think you're right."

* * *

Since forever (the forever he inhabits now, what came before is saved only for seizure wracked nightmares and mirages in the haze of sedating drugs) he has worried they are still looking. _The Prophet _said the Dark Lord was gone forever but whether in the depth of his fragile mind or in reality, he still feels the burn of His tattoo (the magic of a corrupt soul), still feels their eyes on him from the moment he shuts his lids.

As sleep falls fluttering lashes are like the cool edge of a knife as it glides listlessly through flesh (they held no respect for life), balled fists tremble ready for an onslaught of blows while teeth clench and unclench, gnawing at the bit that held him back (trapped him firmly away from a hope of survival with mind intact). Sleep itself is a battlefield of evil and from behind a wall of glass a figure watches (as in the shadows they do too, with their curses and _hate)_. Her eyes are dull as she pities him, her eyes are dull as she scrabbles at loose ends in the desperation to find a hope.

She cannot explain it, even to herself, but his resignment compels her to fight his case with everything she has. He's a murderer and quite clearly disturbed, but some part of her is convinced things could be better for him. And it was that small part of her that sent out search after search for the witch Hermione Granger. That small fragment of hope for a man (boy?) who deserved nothing of her pity or her aid drove her to delve into police files, hospital records and telephone directories in the hopes of finding a woman who may well exist nowhere out of the recesses of her patient's mind.

She's searched and searched, getting every time the same result. The girl had vanished entirely at the age of eleven. There was no record of her death, abduction or migration. She just disappeared from all records. She sent out queries about a place called Hogwarts, the term 'muggle' and received nothing. Then after three solid days of emails, anonymous phone calls and insomnia, in the shadowed hours before sleep clawed all pretence of conscious from her eyes there was an answer.

A flicker in the flame of her vanilla scented candle, a whip crack of noise and a knock at the door. Dressing gown wrapped firmly around her and hands only shaking a little she undid the lock. Confusion flittered across her features as she found her doorway lay empty while wind shifted the leaves of a nearby tree, her eyes found nothing but a small white card of the doormat.

_-Hermione Jane Granger-  
__Order of Merlin, Second Class, Master of Magical Arts.  
__Official Representative of Wizarding Minorities  
__Ministry of Magic,  
__London._

On the back a scrawled note states:

"_Meet me at 12:32am at the point where east meets west, the heavens open and time is pure. I'll wait for you under the beech tree on the crest of the hill. Come alone."_

Mind fogged from exhaustion and relief she barely notices she doesn't understand a word of the message.

* * *

**AN: **Anyone reading? Thoughts? Comments? Complaints? **Review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR.

* * *

**

There is a hill in London.

In fact, one could say there were many hills.

Or perhaps not many. But certainly more than one.

But that aside there is still a certain, particular hill, crowned with an odd looking building and all manner of ice cream kiosks, and on this hill there stood a woman.

She was not alone.

* * *

"Zabini! Stop it!"

"What? It's necessary – the aurors hear you've been out to converse with muggles without one they'll have you in court!"

"What!"

"Just take the bug, Hermione."

"I'll have you know _Blaise_, I visit my parents every other weekend and I have never had my conversations recorded. And yes, they are in fact muggles."

"Just take it, I won't give the recording to anyone."

"Dammit! Where is Harry? He said he'd be here ASAP and I trust his view on what the aurors _need_ considerably more than I trust yours!"

"Dammit, Granger!"

"What?"

"This is a public muggle place! It could be dangerous!"

A pause. "Zabini. It's the middle of the night. We're dressed as muggles, we're here to meet a muggle, and I lived half my life as a muggle and never once did any harm come to me at a bloody planetarium!"

Indignant. "I'm just trying to help you."

"And I appreciate it, Blaise, but you're a pureblood through and through, and no amount of work with the Department of Mysteries is ever going to get you even half way to understanding what muggles are really like. Anything they could do to me I could do back with ten times the force, understand?"

"Yes – but-"

"Zabini? Shut up."

"Bloody Hell, Granger!"

"You love me really."

"I fear you have greatly misjudged me, Miss Granger."

A soft laugh. "You know, there are camps you can go on… I might sign you up as a Christmas present or something."

"Camps?"

"Yeah, you live as a muggle, with muggles for a week or month or something. Gives you a lot on insight – may be useful in your line of work."

"Granger, I am _not_ going to go live with the muggles."

"And of course, they make you pay a fine every time you do anything distinctly magical – some of them are like game shows – get points for muggle things, lose them for letting wizarding things slip, win with the most points and you lose if they find out you're a wizard."

"What's a game show? And how the hell did we even get onto this topic?"

"Shh! There's Hedwig…"

"I though we were waiting for Potter, not his owl."

Shooting a distracted look over her shoulder at her colleague she gently tugged the letter ways from the snowy owl's foot and unrolled the parchment. "It says he won't be able to make it… Been called in on a raid at the last minute… He's sorry and – ha! –_ 'If Zabini tries to fit you with a bug ignore him, I've cleared you from all the technicalities, just go in and do what you do best."_

"Hmph. What would he know?"

But he never got an answer, Hermione's gaze was focussed through the scattering of trees that dotted the park, on a single figure, apprehensively climbing the steep gravel path to the top of the hill.

"Blaise, go back to the office. I'll need you there to contact if something goes wrong."

"But, can't I stay?"

"I told her to come alone, it's only fair I do the same."

"But-"

"Please, Blaise?"

"Okay. But if even the slightest thing is out of place, call me."

"I will do."

"Good luck."

And with the crack of apparation he was gone.

* * *

"_Meet me at 12:32am at the point where east meets west, the heavens open and time is pure. I'll wait for you under the beech tree on the crest of the hill. Come alone."_

She wasn't sure if she'd ever been this scared before. After frantically reading and rereading the note she'd come to the conclusion this Hermione Granger meant the hill in Greenwich Park, time being pure at the meridian line and the heavens opened at the planetarium, both of which sat on the top of a hill. She hadn't been there for years, since as a little girl she'd been on a school trip.

She'd left the house so fast, only half an hour left until the requested time after unravelling the riddle, she'd hardly had time to think about what it actually was she was doing, but now, climbing the hill at a pace slower than a funeral march she couldn't help but panic.

She was a professional, intelligent, well educated. What on Earth did she think she was doing going to meet a mysterious 'witch' under a tree in the middle of the night in an area of the city she hadn't visited in years? She knew that the moment the note had arrived alarm bells should have sounded in her head. She should have sat down and seriously considered whether it was really worth risking this for the sake of a delusional murderer who talked about this mysterious woman in his sleep.

Glancing down at the card she held in her had she took a deep breath, mentally wishing she could turn back, but knowing all the while she wasn't going to.

'_Order of Merlin, Second Class, Master of Magical Arts.' _What did that even mean? And the _'Ministry of Magic_', was this some sort of obscure cult?

All her life she'd been a curious person, and 'curiosity killed the cat' indeed. All for the sake of seeing whether this imaginary world the mysterious 'Sir' talked about was actually real… It was the stress, she told herself. She was a rational, logical person. She would never, under normal circumstances, do anything like this. Perhaps she was coming down with something? She thought, nearing the end of the steep incline and nervously jumping her gaze from tree to tree.

"Hello?" she called out tentatively, resolved that if there was no answer she would run the whole way home without looking back.

Heart pounding in her ears she stepped forward, looking around nervously, trying her best to appear less agitated than she felt.

"Hi."

Her heart almost stopped.

* * *

To an outsider the sight that greeted them in the heart of Greenwich Park would have been an odd one.

A tall thin woman, smartly dressed with fair hair screwed up into a messy bun, conversing quietly with a shorter, also female, figure, this one dressed in casual black. The fact that they were even in the park at this hour was unusual, neither of them looking remotely drunk, but the thing that really would have struck any watchers would be the way the shorter woman would step away, wave a stick and produce a bunch of flowers, handing them over to the other, standing still in shock.

Five more minutes of hushed talking under artificial orange glow of a nearby lamppost would see the smaller woman go very still, ask another question and on hearing the answer, fall to her knees.

At this point the outsider would leave, having no desire to watch the taller figure awkwardly comfort the brunette as she stares in numb shock over the night skyline of southeast London. The outsider would leave but the two women would remain, talking, almost silently, until neither had a question left in them. And only then, with the buzz of the city north of them almost quieted, would they stand to leave. Together moving down the hill in a manner both purposeful and apprehensive.

The brunette would say quietly, "We should never have stopped looking."

The blonde would reply, "He didn't want to be found."

"Will he even remember me?"

An exchanged look of shared worry.

"That will depend on whether he wants to."

* * *

It's never dark here.

He hates that.

Hates the way it's not even possible to recognise night, with the lack of windows and the lights on in the hall, dimmed but never fully out. They tell him it's time to sleep and if he doesn't comply they force it upon him in ways far more unnatural than magic.

He hates that.

Never one to really _know_ free will, he understands now that this is not it. This is not freedom and this is not safe. He wants to get out but his thoughts are chemically slowed until he can barely get past that single concept.

Sometimes he considers the War. How he must have been right from the start. There are not harmless muggles, going about their lives in ignorance. This is a realm of beasts and monsters armed with bottles of clear liquids and the plastic coated whirring of machines. This is a realm that should be destroyed.

But then he's forced to think again, because if it weren't for the Dark Lord and his cause he'd never had been here in the first place, this world with its lack of darkness would never be anything more than a parent's empty threat (_"If you don't eat those sprouts we'll let the muggles get you!")_.

But then what is the answer? Even with hindsight he cannot see a way out. Lying on his too thin mattress, back flat but head facing the neon lighted corridor, he wonders if changing sides rather than running would even have helped.

A traitorous voice whispered '_Potter could have helped you'_ in his head, but he answers silently that could does not necessarily mean _would_. If he were Potter he would have killed himself… Killed Draco Malfoy, that is. As Harry Potter. If he were Harry Potter. But he wasn't and thinking himself round in circles with no direction was never going to get him anywhere.

_If only I had my wand._

He closes his eyes, searching for a happy thought in the hopes of sleep without nightmares and submerged in blessed darkness he hears footsteps then for the first time in forever a familiar voice. It is hushed but the memory is powerful enough to send awareness through his mind like a jolt of lightening.

"Oh my God! That's him! It really is Malfoy…"

Eye's dull with sleep he blinks them open, and on meeting the owner of that slither of recognition they are suddenly wide with surprise.

There is only one thought in his head. Just one, but it is clearer than any he has had since he entered this whitewashed muggle cell. It pounds in his ears and threatens to throw him to the floor as he struggles to sit up.

"Granger?"

* * *

**If you've read it, please review it.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR. **

**

* * *

**

He was never one to beg. _A Malfoy never begs_. That is what she expected him to say. Never show weakness. Never break and shatter and cry on the floor like a baby. Alone.

* * *

She watches the reunion from the sidelines.

The meeting on the hill… It had been unlike anything she had ever experienced. It was a dream. A nightmare. An impossible imagining uncovered under a night sky.

Witches. Wizards. Alive and magical with the ability to create flowers from air and hide from the world for a thousand years. The ability to kill and heal and understand the inexplicable. Real. That is what they were and the thought was terrible and impossible and incredible. She didn't know whether to fear or rejoice in the knowledge.

The man was on the floor. Shaking with his face an ashen mask of tears. His eyes unblinking behind a thin fringe of white blond he stared at the woman. At Hermione Granger.

The witch, for her part, was still. Her exclamation of recognition cut off by the opening of his eyes. Since their gazes met she had neither looked away or closed her mouth from speaking. A hundred feelings flitting over her face, pink cheeked from the cold, bright eyed from shock and something else. Her hands shook hard as clutched the cuff of her shirt.

"_Granger"._

He recognised. He recognised because he wanted nothing more than to return to the past he never appreciated enough. He'd hated her before, but the helpless look on his face, the trembling of his thin, thin, thin fingers, the tears and the barely whispered word as he nearly fell from his bed – that spoke of something beyond hate, something cold with disbelief and strangled with hope he never expected to gain. Wretched.

* * *

He had never been meant to survive that war.

He didn't deserve it.

He was the one that started it all.

He drove them from their home. He shut Hogwarts. He _killed_. He killed and with that action, he forced them to as well. With his cowardice he secured her future. He destroyed so much of what she worked to achieve. Without him… without him would they still have Dumbledore? Would that have won that bit quicker? Would Harry have required less of a sacrifice? Would it have been easier?

Would it have happened at all?

He was the root. The beginning. The beginning that didn't even have the guts to stay to witness the end. He was the coward.

He was a coward and three or five or four or a hundred thousand years ago she would have hated him for that. But now. Now as he shook on his knees before her, now she could feel nothing but shock and… something heavy, dark and suspiciously like guilt. Suspiciously like pity.

She'd known this boy, and he was farther now than he had ever been to sneering little Draco Malfoy, all slick hair and slick voice, snooty and proud. No longer a shadow of his father he was a shadow of _himself_. That scared her somehow… He was broken more than anyone had been in the war. Broken past the shattered souls in Azkaban. Broken to a point past recognition.

She looks at him cry and cannot see any resemblance to her schoolyard rival. Lying asleep on the bed he looked almost the same, but now, awake and so vastly different he could have been a whole other person.

She doesn't know him anymore.

She stares and stares and the questions flutter through her while not an answer is to be found.

Would he have been different? If it had been her to catch him? Would it have been better for him?

She had hated him still, then when she searched with the Order and the aurors, when, in the dying moments of the war he was their priority (his blood the very thing that could ensure their passage safely into the very Manor in which Lord Voldemort spent out his final days). She had been in charge of the tracking of Draco Malfoy while Harry worked on that final horcrux and Ron rallied the straggling remains of their Hogwarts friends into fighting. She had found much, but when the war ended she abandoned the trail and rejoiced with the rest of her world. _We should never have stopped looking…_

Had she caught him then he would have been thrown into Azkaban with no trial. It was the way of war – actions deemed so unfair in the face of the innocent Sirius Black seemed far more logical when people were dying and the person in question was undoubtedly capable of bribing their way out if the sentence was not stated in no uncertain terms. Had she caught him then he would have been in the same situation as his father, perhaps more hated but still undergoing therapy and rehabilitation programs, perhaps he would even have been able to visit his dying mother. Indeed, it was her Vow that ensured he lived in the first place. But she had died in St Mungo's, her last visitor Pansy Parkinson, accompanied by Ron Weasley and Harry Potter.

Had Draco Malfoy been caught when he was wanted and feared most he would never be crying at her feet. He would be bitter and broken in Azkaban, but he would have been among his own people and he's most likely still have his pride. Would that make him better off?

The figure on the floor raises his head slightly, chin up and the light reflects off the same high cheekbones. His skin is translucent under the artificial glow of neon, the sharp panes of his face damp and cold with tears, accentuated with neglect and crippling emotion. _If only he could see himself_, she thinks and wishes she could hate him. Wishes he could look less pathetic. Wishes he would stand and shout and swear and snarl. Wishes he could show some sign he was alive at all, anything more than a shell.

His palms pressed against the glass, his breath making clouds on the window. She waited for the steam to clear, with each breath waiting for it to disappear and leave the boy she once refused to know beyond it, sneering and hateful but alive all the same. Alive and waiting to taunt her with retorts that really stung.

She's not aware of willing it but her left hand rises to rest over his, through the glass. Her knees are folding and she sits level with him, eyes fixed on grey.

* * *

They sit opposite each other, faces wrought with raw emotion, all of it negative and hopeless.

She feels so out of place here. Like she's invading something so intimate it is beyond her understanding (beyond her right to understand).

She's telling herself she should leave, telling herself she should lock the door behind her and allow them their privacy, but every rule and regulation of her job prohibits it. She should never have bought the woman here. It was a lapse of judgement fuelled by shock and were anyone to find out here job would be well and truly gone.

"Miss Granger?" she croaks out.

The brunette does not reply.

"Hermione?"

No response; the witch has fallen into a kind of trance, fixated on the figure in front of her and apparently unable to hear, see or sense anything beyond that.

"Please?" Her voice is cracking and in dull panic her eyes flick between the doors, as if at any moment someone could appear. Middle of the night or not, there are armed watchmen stationed throughout the building.

The woman by the glass issues a soft sob, the first sound she's made since she fell to her knees, and Isabelle's heart is racing.

"Miss Granger, you're going to have to leave! I should never have bought you here!"

Nothing.

The sound of a door being opened far off in the depths of the building makes her jump. Breathing not quite steady she steps over to the glass, refusing to look at the man she now knows to be Draco Malfoy she takes the witch by her arm.

Wet brown eyes snap to hers in horror. Malfoy whimpers at the loss of eye contact.

"You're going to have to leave. Someone could come at any minute."

Startled the witch half raises the stick that's never left her hand.

Malfoy lets out a distressed moan.

* * *

He doesn't know what's happening.

He woke up and she was there and it was all he could do to look at her and marvel. She was magical and she was beautiful. Muggle blood as good as forgotten, she was his first link to his own world for near countless years. _It had been so long_.

She had stood and watched with a stillness that was neither calculating nor confused. She had purpose and determination and an _unbroken wand_, hanging loose in her fingers.

_Save me_, his eyes and mind and heart and soul appealed to her. If she heard she didn't show it. Just stood. Unreal beyond the glass. She was judging him. There was pity and there was remembrance in her gaze. He could not look away.

He was not aware of how it happened but she was right in front of him, kneeling with her hand pressed to his, a world away and yet so _close_ he could almost feel the warmth of her body through the triple glazed barrier.

And then suddenly there was movement and her eyes were taken from him, leaving him forgotten as the pale girl, the Granger look alike who, he decided, would never come close to the real thing, talked quickly with syllables of panic.

Granger's wand was raising and her tried to cry out. He didn't want them to fight. She was here to take him away, surely, not to punish the muggle with the clipboard.

The pale muggle was clasping Granger's arm, imploring something his brain wouldn't function to understand. The word 'leave' left her lips and his eyes widened in panic. Thin fingers clawing at the glass he was on his feet, but they couldn't hear him.

Granger was crying and shouting and the muggle was trying to make her stop and make her leave and he wanted nothing more than to have his wand and his magic.

Then, as suddenly as she had come, she left.

A distant door slammed shut far away and he was left alone. Staring tear-stricken in the wake of the two figures.

In the back of his consciousness he was aware of a neon light flickering and numb with shock and self-pity he slumped onto the edge of his bed.

Stripped of hope and more alone than ever he cried.

* * *

**If you've read it please review it.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR.

* * *

**

Hermione Granger was not angry.

In fact, calling her angry would perhaps be the understatement of the year. She was _furious_.

Nothing but several years preaching muggle communications could have prevented her from using magic on the muggle doctor. She had wanted nothing more than to stun the panicked woman as she fluttered about demanding she left. Didn't she understand? It wasn't even possible for her to _get_ caught.

"I could have hidden!"

"No! You have to leave! They might find you and I could lose my job!"

Lose her job. Hermione hadn't dared to open her mouth. After living her youth in fear of _torture _and_ death_ the idea of a muggle doctor losing her job to save a man's life hardly seemed…well, it hardly seemed anything at all.

"Look, you don't understand-"

"Miss Granger-"

"That man-"

"Please-"

"We thought he was dead!"

"Miss Granger!"

She _was not_ at school anymore. Rounding at the doctor she resisted the urge to glare childishly.

"What do you intend to do with him?"

The woman paused, eyes wide and frightened.

"I – I can't tell you that."

"Yes you can."

Her gaze flickered to the wand and Hermione realised how threateningly she was holding it. Readjusting her stance the stared the woman down.

"I can't. I don't even know clearly myself."

"Then I need you find out for me."

Voice rising in panic, "I can't! I could lose my job! What I haven't been told I'm not supposed to know!"

Something in her voice made it clear she was genuine. Hermione sighed.

"You've been trying to contact me for days, but now I'm here you're not actually telling me anything at all. What is it you want?"

There was a no sound.

Hermione was about to give up and leave when the woman opened her mouth.

"Your help."

* * *

Marigold Humphrey was a large woman. Her greying brown hair was always seen plaited tightly and her face tended to wear a look of mild disinterest when conversing with people. But one thing she took very, _very_ seriously was her job as an Unspeakable.

"BLAISE ZABINI!"

When angered it was said she resembled a small stampeding rhinoceros.

Blaise Zabini gulped.

"Yes, Marigold?"

"_What_ are you doing here?"

"I'm waiting for Hermione Granger, Ma'am. She's on a…a mission. And I said I'd wait to make sure she got out alright."

"Is that not Harry Potter's job?"

"He was on call, Ma'am."

"Zabini. What is it I pay you to do?"

Blaise winced. "I combine magic engineering with muggle technology to maximise the efficiency of the Magical Secrecy Programme."

Marigold placed her hands forcefully down on Blaise's desk. "And what are your hours, Zabini?"

Closing his eyes Blaise willed himself to be somewhere (_anywhere in the world_) other than here. "I work nine to five, Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays."

"That's right," she bit out. "And what's the time now?"

"Eleven forty-two."

"And the day?"

"Thursday."

"Yes, Zabini." She growled. "It is a Thursday. And I am paying you good money to _WORK_ on Thursdays. So, pray tell, why is it that you are sitting in _Granger's _office, surrounded by the work _Granger_ pays you _pennies_ to do when BY CONTRACT you should have been downstairs working for _me_ almost _three hours ago!"_

"I'm sorry, Marigold."

"Sorry isn't good enough, Zabini. I want you in until eight tonight to make up for your blunder and I expect a written apology from Miss Hermione Granger, explaining exactly why she believes she has the right to detain _my_ employees on the days I pay for them."

Standing, Blaise spluttered. "It's not her fault!"

"Zabini, I do not care who's fault it is, the fact still remains, you will be working late and she will formally apologise for you."

Eyes cold and voice sickly sweet Blaise responded, "Of course. I will be down right away."

* * *

"_Your help."_

It was spoken whisper-soft, like she wasn't sure whether she should be admitting such a thing.

"Please," she implored, "Can we talk somewhere else? Somewhere private?"

At a loss Hermione nodded.

They walked for fifteen minutes, finding themselves in a park, a green oasis in the clatter of London waking up. The sun had risen in the time they had been inside and by now commuters were well into their morning routine, tube stations buzzing already.

They'd both been awake for nearly twenty-four hours and shadows lingered under their eyes as they avoided looking at each other.

"I can't tell you where they're planning on taking him, or why, but I can tell you where I fit in. I'm a criminal psychiatrist and it was through me they found out the…oddities… of his character. His magic, put simply, though we didn't know what it was." She sighed. "My boss has recently become involved in a branch of experimental psychoanalysis involving all sorts of technology no one is supposed to know the government possesses, and he saw Sir, sorry, Draco Malfoy… he saw him as the perfect opportunity to put some of it into practice. He has a licence so it's all perfectly legal, and as we had no information whatsoever about this man, not even a name, he seemed the perfect test subject."

At this Hermione frowned, "He's a human being, not a guinea pig."

"I _know_ that! But the more time I spent with him the more oddities he revealed. We were beginning to doubt he was human at all." Throwing her hands up she looked around, "There are more advanced research programmes running in the States, my boss intended to sell him to them but when I protested he gave me a month to find out more – to prove some condition that could explain the murders he's committed."

"But he's not ill!"

Isabelle laughed somewhat hysterically. "He's a lot of things, Miss Hermione Granger. A wizard for one. A murderer for another. It's driving me mad debating whether he deserves it or not. But anyway, there's always been a set of names that reappear in his sleep talking or the things he says under hypnosis, and they're Harry Potter, a Dark Lord, Hogwarts, Dumbledore and you, Hermione Granger."

"Why did you choose to track _me _down? Why not Harry?"

"I spoke to him about it. A proper conversation that wasn't recorded or anything, just me and him. I told him what might happen to him and that I wanted to help him avoid it. He told me there was a war and I think that had something to do with the Dark Lord. He said that Harry Potter was the savoir and his enemy. I asked if Harry Potter would help him and he said he didn't want me trying to find him… and then his eyes rolled back and he started saying something about Hermione Granger and that, well, that was what lead me to try and find you. I thought for some reason, you might have the answer."

"The answer?" Hermione stared at the woman as she watched a duck wander past, slipping into the murky pond. "You don't even know what the question is."

* * *

"Potter?"

"Yup, who is it?"

"Blaise Zabini. I need to speak to you."

Harry rounded his kitchen table, hair wet from his morning shower and glasses askew. Puzzled, he looked down at the Slytherin's head in the grate. "Yes?"

"It's about Granger. Has she contacted you?"

Dropping to his knees he frowned, "Since yesterday? No. Why? Has something happened?"

Zabini looked over his shoulder at something, "No- I don't know." A pause. "It's just, she's not back and I'm starting to worry. Plus Marigold Humphrey just came in demanding I go to work rather than sitting in the office waiting for her. I was just wondering if I'd missed her or something."

Quietly Harry regarded Zabini. He'd never quite understood his motives for working with Hermione, but he know the man cared a lot about her, and in that at least he'd gained his respect. "No. I haven't heard anything, but I'm sure she's fine, Zabini. She _can_ look after herself."

"I know," he muttered. "I was just worried. I kinda just left her in the middle of Muggle London at night. Anything could have happened."

"I doubt it did, she knows what she's doing."

"Yeah."

"I'll keep a look out for her, yeah? I'll Floo you if I have any news."

"Thanks, Potter."

"Not a problem. I suggest you get back to work, Zabini."

And with that the head vanished from the flames, leaving Harry to return to his breakfast, an amused look on his face. It never ceased to amaze him, the loyalty Hermione inspired in the people she worked with. Almost in spite of himself, he was starting to like Zabini.

* * *

Draco felt dizzy.

He felt sick and he wanted more than anything to go flying. Properly. On a broomstick.

He wanted to forget.

And already he was. He couldn't remember what Granger had been wearing, he couldn't remember who she was with (the man or the woman… or had she come alone?) or what she had told him (had she spoken anything but his name?). He couldn't even remember if she had actually been real and that thought scared him to tears. _(He wanted so much for her to be real._)

No one had been in to see him yet and he was hungry. And cold. _(And alone and broken and hoping it wasn't a dream)._ And he hated Hermione Granger.

Because she had been there (_right there!) _and she hadn't done anything.

She hadn't set him free.

* * *

_**If you've read it, please review it.**_


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR.**

**AN: **I'm not sure if I like this chapter. It's a bit…nothingy. I might… do something to it. Tell me what you think.

* * *

Fragmented sunlight like tears of blood, tracing dirty brown lines of brightness across the desk. She couldn't sleep properly, so here she is. At her desk in the middle of dawn doing nothing in particular.

It had been a full day from when she'd met the muggle doctor in Greenwich and still she couldn't quite get her head around what had happened (if it had indeed happened at all).

She'd returned to her desk to find it empty, the notepad by her drawer bearing a hastily scribbled note from Blaise, he'd had to go to work but she was to contact him as soon as she got back. She felt mildly guilty now, staring at that same page of notepaper. She hadn't seen him and she didn't intend to. She hadn't even contacted Harry or Ron.

What was she going to say? What was she going to do? Was it best to report Malfoy as found or try and get him out alone?

Questions buzzed in her ears until her temples throbbed.

She'd agreed to meet Dr Grey for lunch, but first she had to decide on a course of action. The real question was did she _want _to help Draco Malfoy?

Two days ago her immediate answer would have been to take him into custody and have him tried, but the sight of him yesterday was almost too much for her to bear. She remembered the way his eyes had held hers, how utterly, utterly different he looked. Some part of her hated the idea, but deep down she wanted nothing more than to bring the old him back, to see the boy who tormented her for so long, who destroyed her hope and bought her war. He was a murderer, a war criminal and above all a shameful coward, but part of her still tried to see him as the boy who hated a hero for refusing his hand in friendship.

Some things could not be mended but the more she thought on it, the more she wanted to give Draco Malfoy back his pride.

As the golden light of the artificial sun filtered through her underground window she formed the shaky structure of a plan she knew well she may end up regretting.

She'd go to meet Isabelle Grey, she'd apologise for her behaviour and ask to see Malfoy again, this time in disguise. She would then talk to him, find out what he remembered, what he felt. She knew it was wrong _(so wrong)_ but the little girl in her was crying out to see him as redeemed, the little girl in her wanted him to remember and understand and _be himself_ but also to be different. To be the him he should have been, all those years ago when he ran instead of fighting, ran to the wrong place for the wrong reasons.

She wanted to know Draco Malfoy again.

And she wanted him to be good.

* * *

An endless cold soaks through to the very marrow of his bones. It's like a lack of anything. Not painful, just empty in a life-sapping sort of a way. It's like bleeding in your sleep.

He's not sure what he thinks right now. And that in itself marks…something. He always used to know exactly what he though about everything, Mudblood Granger included.

There are too many uncertainties. Too many discrepancies and things that _don't quite fit_. He'd make them go away if he could, but how could that happen if he had no magic (_nothing ever happened without magic_).

He ignores them as they come and go. The Granger-girl (who couldn't be Granger if she tried) has not showed up all day and he resents her more than ever now (she said she'd help him).

He's dozing when someone arrives to cast a shadow through the glass. He can feel eyes watching but has not the energy to watch them back.

He lies unresponsive and wants vaguely to make them feel as degraded as he does right now.

The door swings open and he mentally snarls.

* * *

She's anxious. Hermione Granger no longer looks like Hermione Granger and the transformation makes the hairs stand on the back of her neck. This magic makes no sense to her and she is alike to the other woman in one respect; she hates to not understand.

They've discussed the story a hundred times, but now, hiding in the shadows watching the young witch enter the glass-fronted room in the body of a sixty-year-old psychiatrist, she's not so sure she knows how this is intended to work.

They've spoken to her seniors, handing over a fake CV and somehow having the men's eyes glaze over with a nod of agreement and admiration of the invented woman's incredible reputation. They'd agreed terms, there would be no stealing Draco Malfoy from the building, not to ship him to America and not to smuggle him back into the magical world. There would be records made of every conversation and when the case was closed all tapes would be destroyed. There would be no secrets either. They'd agreed to help each other but now that things were beginning to happen Isabelle didn't know anything of what she was expected to do or what Hermione wanted to find.

The other woman had looked so determined as she drank the thick orange potion, gritting her teeth against the taste and locking herself in a toilet stall as the magic kicked it. She'd come out as someone else and this fact alone had Isabelle's mind caught in a loop. It made no sense.

She shifts and angles her head to try and see better, but the neon lighting reflects back and the couple are well and truly hidden.

* * *

His wrist is strapped to his bed. She hadn't noticed that last time and she wonders if it's a new implementation or was she just not seeing things as clearly before.

"Draco?"

Not a sound. He picks a stray strand of blond hair from his white top.

"They tell me you're here because you killed someone."

He doesn't move and she shifts her weight on her little stool, positioned just out of reach, like they expect him to jump any visitor.

"They tell me you're here because they don't think your safe around other people."

A lazy blink and she might as well not have been there.

"Do you know the name of the man you killed?"

There is nothing and growing restless she ploughs on.

"Did you know he had a family? A wife and a child?"

Nothing.

"Did you _care_?" Her frustration builds with his lack of response.

Nothing.

"Do you care about _anything_, Draco Malfoy?"

At this he turns to look at her and the emptiness of eyes she last say brimming with raw emotion scares her into silence. If she hadn't seen him before she'd have thought it certain he had no soul, not an ounce of regret or a single hope in all the world.

He just blinks at her.

"Do you regret anything you've done?" she asks, not expecting anything at all.

His eyes are still blank but this time his mouth opens, a dark croak issues, "Sometimes."

She sits a little straighter, fingers tightening on the fabric of a coat with which she fiddles. She licks her lips, "Do you regret the death of Ralph Alderman?"

His face shows lazy and irritated confusion, "Who?"

She frowns. "He was the man you killed to get put in here."

He rolls back onto his back. "If that's the case then yes. I regret his death."

There is a lengthy pause and she watches him staring at the ceiling, hating him for his flippancy. He ignores her and she starts to doubt he's half as changed as she thought him to be.

She tries again. "Did you have any reason for killing him?"

"I don't answer to you, muggle." His eyes never leave the whitewashed panels. "And I never will."

She doesn't say anything. Hurt because that comment cuts too close to home, hurt because she thought there was something to believe in, hurt because he's still as hateful as he was the first time (they're just both a little older now).

She bites back her response, toning it down to a question she knows he'll hate her for. "Do you like it here?"

As expected it provokes a response, he swings his head to face her, contempt contorting his features, "What do you think? I'd call you a hag if I didn't think it was elevating you beyond your station. At least hags have magic."

She's stunned. A snarl drags itself across her features, "You haven't changed a bit, have you?" she demands in a hiss and he looks shocked, the old greying woman standing in righteous indignation.

"I know people like you, I've known them all my life, and I know that there's more to you than you want us to know."

He looks dully amused.

"So we're going to _stop_ the drugs. We're going to _stop_ you seeing Dr Grey. We're going to _stop you brooding_, acting like you're not even _there_. And I am going to come and talk to you. Every. Day. And you are going to respond or you will be sent away to a fate worse than your bigoted little mind can even begin to comprehend. Am I understood, you son of a Slytherin bitch?"

His eyes widen and he goes to sit up.

In her short, grey haired disguise, Hermione sneers.

"You are going to save _yourself_, Mister Malfoy. And if I so much as imagine you feeling sorry for yourself or saying things like _that_ you will have the lit end of my wand to answer for. Yes?"

He nods, eyes wide and mouth open.

Satisfied she turns to leave, pausing at the door to look him over one last time.

In an almost afterthought she reaches into her robes, "For the wait," she snaps, hurling a copy of the Daily Prophet at his head.

He catches it with eyes wide, following her silhouette as it heads full speed out of the ward, closely followed by the blonde doctor.

He looks at his hands and sees the paper shaking. He looks back at the door and sees the hall empty. He looks to the floor and isn't sure if he wants to jump up and sing or scream until his vocal chords snap. He isn't sure what he thinks or feels or knows or does.

But he's sure of one thing.

She came back.

* * *

**AN: **I'm bored. :(

**Review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR.**

**AN: **Not the world's most wonderfully splendid chapter, but nevertheless it is a chapter. And that's a start, right?

-

She'll admit now that her actions of the previous day were not the wisest for one in her situation.

Blaise was no longer talking to her, having almost hugged her on sight of her return he then proceeded to yell himself hoarse at the trouble he'd been through on her behalf, of the grief she'd caused him worrying ("two _days_, Granger! _Two! Days!_") and the work she'd left him and Remus to cope with in her absence. On top of that she'd passed Harry in the reception hall and all he could do was crack stupid innuendoes at the state of her and Zabini's 'relationship', her desk was piled so high she might not have known it was even a desk under all the memos the two males in her department had scattered about in an attempt to do her job for her and she was supposed to be at a hugely important meeting with the senior members of the Ministry regarding her newest magical rights proposal in ten minutes and she had nothing planned to wear, nothing planned to say, nothing planned to ask and no one around to take her place as she head butted her desk in an attempt to make it clear itself.

And she was due to be seeing Dr Grey for lunch.

"Bloody Malfoy," she huffed, throwing back the dregs of her coffee.

"Things have gotta be bad for you to be bringing _him_ up after all these years," commented an auror casually standing in the doorway.

"I don't have time right now, Felix, leave a note and I'll get back when I have a chance."

Eyebrows raised the man caught the chucked notepad and muggle pencil watching her swiftly retreating back as she headed for the apparation zone at a half run. He peered at the wooden instrument with a questioning look before muttering something about Harry bloody Potter and errands, tossing the notebook and pencil back on the desk and shutting the door behind him.

"Oi, Lupin!" the werewolf looked up from his desk in the office next door, "Could you tell Granger we've had a new development on the Malfoy Senior case? Harry said she'd want to know and he's too snowed under to tell her himself."

The older man laughed, "The mood she's in he'd pull out all stops to _make_ himself too snowed under to tell her himself."

"That time of the month, eh?" inquired Felix with a laugh.

Full moon being just three days away Remus gave him a look that suggested such jokes were in very poor taste, but laughed all the same, "She turned up this morning to a Zabini with injured pride and discovered her office practically dismantled from where we fell out with her filing system in the two days she's been away. And she's off to meet the Minister with nothing prepared."

At that Felix cringed, he'd worked with her for long enough on the original Malfoy, case towards the tail end of the war, to know that a Hermione Granger with no notes in a business environment was a rather large and occasionally violent situation to be avoided at all costs. "Damn," he offered.

"Yup," Remus nodded, "and don't worry I'll pass on the message."

"Ta, Lupin."

-

Maxwell Leaverson had been working in the security guard business for several decades. He'd started out as a bouncer at his little sister's school disco at age sixteen and over the years had progressed steadily to the position he currently held, guarding whatever deranged miscreants the government felt necessary to hold captive under the pretence of mental illness in MI5's number one psychiatric compound.

Well, perhaps to an outsider 'compound' was a harsh word to use. Above ground the building was very similar to any psychiatric hospital, all painting classes and neat dorms, however the further down the reinforced elevators took you the more prison-like the wards became.

The level in which Maxwell was currently standing was the very lowest and it should be here that the most dangerous of the 'patients' were held capti-, no; he corrected himself, where the most dangerous of the patients _lived_. However, the only occupant presently was an effeminate blond man with a simple leather band on a length of chain keeping his wrist trapped to his bed. Maxwell raised his eyebrows, how could this one be considered more dangerous that that woman on the first floor down who spent all her waking hours with every limb securely buckled down, in case she happened to feel the need to rip out the jugular artery of any passing individual?

Intrigued he wondered over to the desk, though he was not particularly surprised when he found all files out of sight and draws locked. Sighing he leant against the wall, he had nothing else to do for a few minutes.

To pass the time he looked over at the lone patient, the man was staring intently at something on the other side of his bed with a look akin to absolute delight pasted over his features. Maxwell knew that all cells from floor minus one down to minus six were identical in furnishings (though they had varying levels of alarm systems and reinforced glass) and he was certain there could be nothing that exciting on the floor, so, fully expecting the man to be staring at blank floor tiles, he peered forward.

His eyes widened. The man was reading a newspaper.

And not any old newspaper, either. It had a very strange format he couldn't at all get his head around. The writing seemed to be normal but at the same time it dragged your eyes round in loops as you looked at it. If you looked long enough it almost looked as though the pictures were moving.

Maxwell shook his head, some of the things those doctors used to diagnose were simply absurd. He'd never understood all their psychobabble and as far as he was concerned incidents like this proved that the doctors themselves were just as mad as the people they treated.

All the same he couldn't take his eyes off of that paper.

Behind him the door to the ward opened.

-

None of her clothes were clean,

How could none of her clothes be clean? She did the washing every Thursday without fail. How could they not be clean?

And then it dawned on her. They weren't clean because she hadn't been home all Thursday, bar the four hours she'd slept. Just like everything in her office; the piles of papers, stacks of unanswered memos, scruffy messages, crumpled and near illegible in Blaise's ungainly scrawl standing in for her own neat and coherent print. And she had no notes, nothing prepared and _nothing to wear_ to the most important meeting of the month all because of Draco bloody Malfoy and his bloody fantastic appearing act in the bloody middle of MI bloody 5.

She hissed as she caught her shin on the edge of the table.

"Bloody _Malfoy_."

Yesterday she could think of nothing other than how to handle his situation, but now stark reality was bearing down on her: she did not have time to go running after long lost criminals in the hopes of 'saving' them when it was quite clear that nothing else happened properly unless she_ did it herself_.

And now she'd have to wash her robes with magic. Excellent. Exactly what she'd spent years avoiding: using magic for simple menial tasks.

And she was going to have to _improvise_. She wasn't an improvisation sort of person. She was the sort of person that was utterly outstanding all the time but only after hours of preparation. She was the sort of person who'd struggle to sound logical and brilliant and motivating and visionary if she didn't have her carefully planned note cards in front of her, explicitly detailing precisely how to be all those things and likable as well.

It was going to be utter humiliation.

She frantically pulled on the freshly scourgified robes and grabbed an apple on the way out the door. And then changed her mind and grabbed a Mars bar instead (this was no time to be worrying about excess calories).

She was halfway down the road when she realised what she was doing and ducked into an alleyway to apparate like a normal witch. Five minutes later she rushed into the boardroom three minutes late and mentally swore as she realised she didn't even have the folder detailing her initial proposal.

Resisting the urge to ask 'what exactly is it I'm arguing for?' she slipped into her seat, loathing Harry for talking himself out of accompanying her to this one.

-

"Oh, hello," said the blonde doctor, sidestepping Maxwell to get to her desk.

He watched her rummage through the draws before pulling out a file and standing to leave. At the door she paused. "Erm, should you be down here?" she gave the blond man behind the glass a wary look, "You aren't the usual guard when he's awake."

He shook his head, it was a reasonable point, pulling out his ID tag he told her that he was standing in for Peter, whose wife was having a baby.

"Oh… right," she looked back at the patient. "It's just… he gets a bit uppity sometimes. I wouldn't… want anyone to get hurt."

Grinning at her concern Maxwell insisted that he could handle it, "he doesn't look particularly lethal anyway," he commented.

At that she took him by the arm and led him out herself, "You'd be surprised," she peered at his badge, "…Maxwell. That man's been through a lot and he has an extraordinary talent for breaking things when he gets angry."

"Right." Maxwell looked back at the reinforced steel door with its multiple heavy-duty locks and ultraviolet alarms. And then he thought of the girly looking man and snorted in amusement. "You sure that lot's really necessary?"

Dr Grey eyed him blankly before quickly turning around and filling in the locking combination for the door. "Absolutely certain, Maxwell. And perhaps you'd best stay on the other five floors for this afternoon." It was a command, not a comment.

"Right you are, Doctor," he said, deciding it really wasn't worth the argument, "Funny looking paper you'd given him, though. Any chance of you telling us what that was all about? Gave me a headache just looking at it."

Isabelle gave him a strange look, "What paper?"

"The newspaper. No doubt one of your newfangled 'methods'."

She stopped walking, alarmed but hiding it quickly she said, "You know that's strictly confidential. And I think I've left something on my desk, so I'll see you later."

Without giving him a chance to reply she dashed back down the corridor.

-

"So you're proposing that _vampires,_" he spat out the word with distaste even Snape would have struggled to match, "should be _embraced_ as normal members of our society?"

"They're human beings too, Lord Tealroy," she bit out; silently thanking him for reminding her which case she was on.

"That matter is still up for debate, Miss Granger," replied the old man in his sickeningly slick upper-class voice.

Dear gods, he reminded her so much of Lucius Malfoy, she almost cringed. "I'll remind you that muggles once viewed us in the same way, they were intimidated by the characteristics that separated us and them."

His eyes widened, "Are you comparing sucking blood to possessing magic, Miss Granger? Because, I say, that's a very weak argument, I was expecting better from you."

She flushed before and sniffing, "Only last weak, Lord Tealroy, you were backing desires to _burn_ known vampires as dark creatures and abominations, if that doesn't relate to past muggle-wizard relations I don't know what does."

The old man's eyes flashed, "Creatures that can not survive twenty four hours without a fix of fresh human blood, and you're telling me we should welcome them with open arms and_ invite them to dinner_ every week? They are foul, insipid dark creatures and I see no reason why they should not all be sent back to the graves from which they came in the first place."

"That is entirely unfair! You'd never call a muggle or a hag or a werewolf 'foul' and dark!"

"Do you wish to continue on that line of argument, Miss Granger? Because I believe both muggles and werewolves are subjects very close to your heart and I'd hate to upset you."

She felt ready to snarl, how _dare_ he? Her voice rising in righteous indignation she launched into her 'Vampires are people too' speech only to be cut short.

"Erm, Hermione," ventured one of the other men at the table, "They are officially documented as dark creatures, you can't dispute him on that one."

She felt her eye twitch. Not aware of having stood up in the first place she sank back down into her seat. It was going to be a very long hour.

-

Isabelle was in an undisputed state of panic,

She'd promised not to enter Draco Malfoy's cell unless under the direct supervision of Hermione Granger and even if she did go in she doubted she'd be able to get the offending article off of him, but still, she _needed _to get that paper back before anyone saw it.

Scenarios raced through her head, each with consequences more dire than its predecessor and she could not think of a single thing to do. She'd never seen the man look so happy, rapt attention such a contrast with the dull, withdrawn demeanour occasionally fragmenting into raw and painful outbursts she had grown so used to. He looked alive. Human, bright with childish delight at the words written on the pages before him.

And the security guard was right, the paper distorted your vision entirely, like you weren't meant to be reading it, or there was a missing link between reading and understanding as the recognisable words spiralled past her eyes in a string on nonsense. And she was standing with her nose almost pressed to the glass in an attempt to get a closer look and he hadn't even noticed, he was that wrapped up in whatever he was reading.

Hands shaking visibly she looked at her watch, she was due to be meeting Miss Granger very soon, she'd have to leave now to be there on time. She hadn't been sure what she was going to say to the other woman earlier, in fact she'd been dreading the meeting, so nervous in the presence of the witch. But now she certainly had a talking point. Giving him an obvious magical… object! That defied any form of sense at all. Troubled, but ready to argue Isabelle shrugged off her lab coat and exited, full of questions and ready to drag the woman back down here to get her to reclaim the newspaper as soon as possible. If anyone else saw it she feared she'd end up way over her head.

-

Seventy minutes later would find Hermione Granger sitting on Harry Potter's desk, clutching a box of tissues and spilling out the woes of her vampire meeting and how much she bloody well hated bloody stupid Lord Tealroy and his silly smirk when he made her look stupid which was far more often than by rights it should have been and "Dammit Harry! Why didn't you come?"

In vague desperation to get his friend off his desk before his current girlfriend's overprotective father paid another visit he said, "Weren't you supposed to be meeting someone for lunch?"

Hermione's eyes widened, "Shit." And with that she dashed for the door.

-

Draco sat curled up on his bed, wide eyes drinking in news of his own world like his life depended on it. Someone called Florence Linbourne had just discovered a cure for a strange and unpleasant side effect of treating the common cold with certain ivy leaves and it was _fascinating_. He'd always hated Herbology but it was _fascinating_. And a Felix Hawkins (auror for Ministry of Magic) had allegedly been spotted dancing with the muggle princess of some European principality. Amazing. And Hogwarts intake this year had been an all time high. And Gringotts spokes goblin formally apologised to the parents of Miss Sally Blogs for the state the magical carts had been in when she was thrown off the tracks to her death, and yes, he admitted the charms were in need of recasting. It was home.

Later the loneliness and bitterness would come crashing down on him, curled up near a stuttering muggle heater, longing for a roaring magical fire with its embers and floo ports. Later he'd sob and scream for his wand and Hermione fucking Granger. Later he'd punch the glass with unnatural strength, enough to make the first pane shatter. Later there'd be flashing red lights and security bells as they pumped a silent gas into his room to make him sleep while they moved him to a new cell. Later it would hurt more than he would have imagined possible but for now he was happy just to rejoice in the knowledge that that world was _real_. Not the deranged invention they seemed to take it for, but a true memory of a true place. He laughed in delight at the quidditch page. Falmouth Falcons were top of the league, Chudly Cannons up for relegation. Things were exactly where they should be.

Later of course he'd remember that if things were where they should be he would not be trapped in a muggle box, ready for examination, he'd be out there with the likes of Felix Hawkins and Florence Linbourne, but for now… for now he was content.

-

Later came and went.

He opened his eyes and Draco felt sick.

His head was pounding, his mouth was dry and there was something about the ceiling he was staring at that wasn't quite right. He blinked and refocused. And then it came to him. He leapt to his feet and swore violently.

The bastards had changed his cell!

He spun around, frantically scanning the floor, under the bed, in the small partition that housed the almost-privacy of his 'bathroom', under his mattress, behind his bed, _in_ his bed. It was gone. His paper was gone!

-

**AN:** Dun dun dun. On that dramatic note I challenge each and every one of you readers, to **review** this chapter. I know some of you don't usually, I know some of you don't have much to say, I know some of you hate it when people ask you to review, but I also know that some you lurkers _must_ have a reason to have me on alert, and it would be very nice to hear it. Just this once. Please? For me? I'm doing my attention starved puppy face and everything.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR.**

**AN: **This really did not go where I was expecting it to. (But look! I found Ron!)

-

"What do you mean, _I_ broke the rules?"

"You gave him that, that, that_ newspaper!_"

"_What_?"

"You said I wasn't to speak to him and I said you weren't to give him anything and you went and _gave him a newspaper!"_

All previous nerves on dealing with the witch disintegrated as the woman came in ten minutes late in a foul temper. Isabelle's mounting stress reached its peak and in the discussion they were supposed to be having about the anomaly in their little agreement had turned into a full scale confrontation, both parties hissing in enraged whispers while the entire coffee shop watched on in amusement.

"You're wondering why he acts the way he acts while you keep him locked in that little room, and then have a go at me when I give him a slight reminder of the world he used to belong to!"

"HA! So you _did_ mean to give it to him!"

"I did not! I told you, it was a spur of the moment afterthought sort of thing!"

"But- But. You should have _thought_ before you broke our agreement and made such a godawful mess of the entire situation."

"A mess? _I've_ made a mess? I gave him a _newspaper_."

Isabelle was aware that people at neighbouring tables were sniggering.

"This isn't getting us anywhere," she muttered.

"No," replied Hermione.

"Well, when you've finished your drink we can go and see him."

Hermione pulled a face, "As you wish."

-

The strange effeminate man was staring at him with the most pure look of loathing Maxwell had ever been on the receiving end of. It made him flinch just to think of it.

His current mode of dealing with the uncomfortable situation was to attempt to get his head around the puzzle that was the paper before him. He picked up the odd word, like 'asunder' and 'Friday' and 'Wizgamot" but on the whole it didn't make a lot of sense. The picture on page three (labelled page eight to confuse him further) was of a man hanging upside down on what appeared to be… well, he honestly had no idea. He recognised the image but his brain wasn't linking it with anything in particular at all. And if he looked away he couldn't remember it clearly enough to record it on paper; it was as if the moment her concentrated on it his focus blurred.

He glanced up. The man seemed to be attempting to bore a hole through his scull with mind power alone.

Raising an eyebrow and pretending to be disinterested Maxwell turned back to the paper (all the while reminding himself the man couldn't possibly do anything to him from the other side of the glass).

There was a low crunching sound in the direction of the occupied cell. Maxwell looked up but nothing had changed, the blond man just glared.

He hadn't been told the reasons but the man had just in the past few hours had his cell changed. When he'd arrived on request to keep guard he'd found the paper on the desk and with no one else around he saw little point in resisting the temptation. It was without a doubt a fascinating read (if you could go so far as to use that word) though it certainly made his head hurt.

There were footsteps in the corridor.

Maxwell sighed and stood up, letting the paper fall back on the desk.

The muffled voices could just about be heard through the door.

"_I don't understand how this could happen! I thought I told you no drugs! The same goes for tranquillisers!"_

"_What? Are you insane? What were they supposed to use! He was doing magic!"_

"_This is ridiculous-"_

"_-What are you planning on doing? This isn't my fault. Is there no way you can get him to listen to you? We can't have him behaving like that! He'll be relocated and these… incidents… only make him more intriguing to… others."_

"_What do you expect me to do! I have a job, you know. And friends. And a life! And if I tell anyone in my world of his existence they'll have him locked up in Azkaban!"_

"_What's Az-"_

"_Shut up!"_

The door swung open.

From the other side of the room the crunching sound came again. Louder.

CRASH!

In horror Hermione and Isabelle swung to look at Malfoy's new cell. Maxwell threw himself to the floor.

Hermione's wand was out before Isabelle had time to blink but even before then it seemed Malfoy was upon her, clutching her shoulders in white knuckled hands, wide eyes pleading.

"I have to leave here," he rasped out. Isabelle couldn't tell whether the man or the witch were shaking more, "You've got to get me out of here!"

Hermione stared shell-shocked at the glass on the floor, then at Malfoy, then at the two pale muggles, watching in fear.

"He's broken out," said Maxwell in dumb shock. He looked back at the empty space in which three layers of bulletproof glass used to reside. "He broke it."

"_Granger_," the man hissed, swaying and even paler than usual, the effects of such a vast amount of wandless magic beginning to take their toll. "_Please."_

And then he slumped. The world around him spinning into blackness and the last thing he saw were brown eyes wide with… something.

Hermione caught him.

The muggles stared.

-

Ron Weasley was sitting happily at the kitchen table of his new Thames-side apartment. Outside the noise and bustle of the muggle city sounded, but inside the magical flat you only heard it when you wanted to. He'd always wanted one of those swanky city bachelor pads but who'd have thought one day he'd actually have the money to afford it? Settling back in his seat he flicked thought the pages of the wizard magazine he'd just purchased.

"RON! Ron, open the door!"

He looked up; someone was banging on the door.

"Ron! Open up! It's Hermione!"

Frowning slighting and wondering what on earth his friend could want (wasn't she usually at work now?) he got to his feet. "Calm down, I'm coming," and then after a moment of hesitation he grabbed his magazine and stuffed it down the back of his sofa lest she see it and give him _that_ lecture again.

"RON!"

"I'm coming," he roared back.

She stopped yelling back continued to bang.

He unlocked the door and came face to face with a very windswept version of his best friend, Hermione Granger.

Mouth open to complain about her appalling lack of manners he stopped short.

"You're bleeding," he stated dumbly.

Without another word she dashed past him into his sitting room, tossing whatever it was she'd been carrying onto his sofa.

"Hermione… What's going on?"

"Close the door!" she gasped, "the police!"

He blinked. Muggle aurors were after Hermione?

"What?"

"_Close the damn door_!"

Alarmed he did so, the far off sound of sirens cut short as the silencing spells fell back into place.

Slowly he queried, "Is this something to do with that muggle Harry said you went to meet?"

Her eyes darted from window to window, "Something like that."

"Hermione, you can relax, they won't find you here."

Tense she spun back to look at him, and then with a half sob she threw herself at him. Ron returned her hug warily.

"I can't believe I just did that," she muttered to his chest.

"Did what?" His eyes couldn't help but be drawn to the bundle on his sofa.

"I should never have- I, oh. My god, Ron, I don't know what got into me."

Starting to feel a little nervous Ron led his friend to an armchair, "What did you do?"

"I- She- We were in a coffee shop and we were arguing over the Daily Prophet," she swallowed, "and then we went back to the hospital and he'd broken out somehow… They'd used tranquillisers to catch him. And then-" she sobbed slightly, "- and then we got there and he did it again, only I caught him and there were alarms and lights and I didn't know what I was doing. It was terrible. Dr Grey, she was yelling and crying and the security guard was lying on the floor and all I could do was hold him and when I heard people coming I apparated him out. I don't know what I was thinking."

Ron found his eyes resting back on the figure on the chair opposite them.

"Who?" he ventured, instinctively knowing he wasn't going to like the answer.

"I couldn't go far… I wasn't strong enough. I only got as far as the bridge. I'm so sorry, Ron. I didn't know where else to go!"

He mumbled some calming sounds and hugged her a little tighter, but didn't move his eyes from what he could clearly make out as a person on the other side of the room.

"The police. I don't know how they found me so quickly. I don't know how I got away from them. They were so close but I got away and-" she stopped. "Ron, I need to use your Floo."

Distracted by her change of tone he looked back at her, "Why? Where do you need to go?"

She was getting distracted and twitchy again.

"Hermione, do you want a drink or something," he asked warily.

"Please, Ron, I need your Floo," she was clearly getting panicked now.

"Hermione, calm down!" he glanced back at the figure, "Who is it?"

She stared at him, a deer caught in headlights.

"Ron, please."

He stood up while she stayed motionless where he'd left her in the chair. Not sure what he might find Ron reached out a hand towards the blanketed figure. His hand touched the shoulder. Nothing happened; he breathed a half-sigh of relief.

Slowly he turned the body over and with a gasp he jumped back, a look of absolute venom taking over his face-

"MALFOY?"

Behind him Hermione cringed.

-

**AN:** I know it's short, I didn't have much time. Happy belated Friday 13th and mahusively BIG thank you's to chaosinparis, The Fuzy Llama, samhaincat, Litsa, tahwekilelohcin, edge-of-reality, TheItinerantSon, Rose of Zakarisz, Lucathia Rykatu, Moonlight Storm, debarie, ky-lee333 and Sapphiregirl who were kind enough to _give me feed back_ (hint hint).

As ever, **if you've read it, please review it.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR.**

**AN: **I'm ill. Alas.

-

"Ma'am, you're really not making any sense."

"I know! But I'm also the only person you've got who knows what's going on, so listen and _stop asking questions!_"

"I'm going to have to ask you not to use that tone of voice with me, Ma'am."

"It's _doctor_, not Ma'am."

"_Doctor,_" the policeman frowned, "you're not making any sense."

Argh!

Maxwell looked up helpfully, "He's right, Dr Grey, you're not really."

"If _I'm_ not making sense it's because this entire _situation_ doesn't make sense!" She glowered. "I'm telling you, you aren't looking for a woman in her sixties called Marissa, you're looking for a woman in her twenties called Hermione! She's about three inches shorter than me, has brown hair and brown eyes and is not likely to be anywhere in the vicinity of the building!"

"But, Ma'- Doctor. She won't have had the chance to get any further, they've only been gone ten minutes."

"Well, maybe she had an escape car, huh? Or a helicopter or, or, or a bloody MAGIC CARPET!"

"But both you and the security guard said you never saw her leave the room, and there's been no record of anyone unauthorised leaving the building."

"We didn't see her leave the room? You're calling that evidence?" Isabelle's patience was fraying, "She _has _left the room! Can you see her? I can't," she turned to Maxwell, "Can you?"

"Doctor, please calm down. Maybe you'd like a warm drink, or a bit of a rest; we appreciate it's been a very stressful day for you."

"Stressful? _Drink_? NO! Just find my patient! Don't you understand! My JOB is on the line! You've got to bring them back!"

"Please Dr Grey, you're going to have to calm down."

-

"Hermione, you're not making any sense."

"I know I'm bloody well not! But I'm trying to answer your questions, so listen and _stop asking more!_"

Ron backed away, hands up, "Okay, sorry. Relax… You may continue."

She glared.

After his shocking revelation Ron had stunned Malfoy, despite Hermione's exclamations of "he's already unconscious!" The man in question now lay on the sofa opposite them utterly still while Hermione recounted the tale to her friend.

"It had to be wandless magic… I suppose I forgot how much damage he'd managed to do even when they'd got him all drugged up, it was stupid of me to suggest they take it away all at once… I don't know what I was thinking. Without the chemicals his clarity of thought would be increased tenfold, making magic far easier to focus without a wand. Not that I would have clue how to do that… Either he was trained in it or he has just been very lucky to escape with his life… Three sheets of bulletproof glass, Ron. That's a colossal amount of strength…"

"And you just apparated him away?"

"I don't know what came over me… But… They didn't want him for the murder's he'd committed. Not anymore. Maybe that was it. Their motives had warped since they'd bought him there… He was there originally because they had him linked to the murder of a muggle near where he used to live. Strange circumstances and not being able to identify the cause of death led them to him somehow, but just take one look at his file and you can see all attempts at finding out more on the crime ended quite some time ago… Dr Richards, Dr Grey's supervisor, he works in some advanced neuroscience research. Some of those tests had got to be to do with him, I'd never heard of anything like it…"

Ron handed her a cup of tea. She took it gratefully.

"Just for a moment, when all the alarms went off, and Dr Grey was yelling at me to hand Malfoy over… just for a moment it turned into an 'us and them' thing. It wasn't Malfoy the murderer they wanted - it was Malfoy the wizard. And just for that split second it took me to get him out of there that was all I could think about. That they wanted his magic, and as a witch, the only thing I could do was protect him from that."

She shook her head, taking a sip of the tea.

"Which is utterly insane… Me protecting Malfoy from muggles? Maybe work really is getting to much for me at the moment…"

Ron smiled weakly, "Maybe you should take a holiday. Your first in, what? Since Hogwarts?"

"Yeah. Perhaps I should." Then she laughed, "No, don't be stupid, I left Remus and Blaise for a day and the department was in chaos!"

Ron smiled, face falling as he looked back over at Malfoy.

"So, what you going to do with him? Azkaban?"

Hermione blanched.

"No! And if you say one word to Harry I swear to god I will never speak to you again!"

Taken aback Ron stared at her.

"Then what are you going to do! You aren't seriously going to take him _home_ with you? What happens when he wakes up? When he remembers what you are? What _he_ is? When he steals your wand and goes to recall his bloody Dark Lord?"

Hermione sighed, "Don't be stupid, Ron, he's not loyal enough to go back. He spent the rest of the war in hiding, remember that?"

"Cowardice doesn't make him any less dangerous, Hermione."

"Just promise me you won't tell Harry."

"But-"

"Please, Ron?"

"Hermione, this is stupid," he said, standing and walking over to the window. "Your police friends have left," he offered.

She sighed, "Thank god."

-

"Where have you been, Martins? I called you in ten minutes ago."

"Sorry, sir. We were out by Blackfriars and this old lady said a girl and a boy just jumped on top of her. She thought they were trying to steal her groceries…"

"You were late for that? Why didn't you just leave Thompson to deal with it?"

"The girl was acting very suspicious, sir. And the boy was unconscious. She was carrying him over her shoulder."

Isabelle looked up, "What did they look like?"

"Dr Grey, I thought I told you-"

"Medium height brunette and a thin blond male, didn't see any more than that-"

Martins faltered under his boss's glare.

"She was running very fast, sir, we lost her in the crowds on Southwark."

The officer turned to Dr Grey, "You think that's them?"

"Yes."

"Well, don't just stand there, Martins! Find them!"

"Sir?"

"The girl and boy. The brunette broke the blond out of here," he pointed at the shattered glass across the room from him, "she's quite obviously dangerous. Go and find her. I want her in custody by six o'clock tonight, understood?"

"Yes, sir."

-

"I'm not happy about this, Hermione."

"I know you're not, but you owe me one, Ron. In fact, you owe me lots, so it's only fair you repay the multiple favours I've done you in the past."

"Harbouring news of a dangerous criminal hardly equals the occasional secret from girlfriends."

"He doesn't have a wand, Ron. It'll be fine."

"But you do, Hermione. What happens when he wakes up, without a clue where he is and sees your wand lying on the kitchen table?"

"When was the last time I left my wand lying around?"

"He's desperate. He'd take it from you if you gave him the chance!"

"Like I'd give him the chance!"

"You promise you'll hand him over next week."

"I don't want him imprisoned just yet."

"Why not?"

She stopped, turning to look at him. "I honestly don't know, Ron. But something tells me this isn't over yet and I'm not going to throw him into a prison cell and forget about him until I've worked out what's yet to come."

She turned back to Malfoy, whose limp form she was readying for the Floo trip back to her house.

"Hermione, wait."

"What?"

"Why don't you stay here?"

His ears were turning pink.

"What?"

Looking at his feet he mumbled something she couldn't quite make out.

"Sorry?"

"It's dangerous. This place is better protected than yours. You can lock him in the spare room or something. You can have my bed, I'll sleep on the sofa. And when you've found out what you need to find out we can kick him into Azkaban, yeah?"

"Ron, I don't want to drag you into this. It has nothing to do with you."

"It has had everything to do with me since the moment you dragged him in here. I can't leave you to handle this on your own."

"Ron, you just offered to have Malfoy live in your house."

"It's better than leaving Malfoy living in your house, spending half my time wondering if he's murdered you yet."

Hermione looked up at Ron, then back at Malfoy. Drawing her friend into a hug she felt the weight of the past week's revelations bearing down on her, head swimming and tears pricking the backs of her eyes, she whispered, "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Curled up on the armchair Ron looked back at Malfoy. What the hell had he just offered to do?

-

**AN:** Eek. This is even shorter than the last one. Shame on me. Sorry, I just wanted to get one out before the end of half term. My time is no longer my own. My UCAS application's gone now (and I have an offer!) but the more I think about universities the more I lose the will to live. Plus my hard drive filled up yesterday so I spent all night last night burning stuff off onto backup DVDs to clear some space. Ergh. No fun. But yus. The point of this author's note was to thank, kazfeist, trieste, Gwinna, JetGriffins89, IcyPanther, ali-lou, samhaincat, Lucathia Rykatu, Moonlight Storm, Rose of Zakarisz, ky-lee333, debarie, CelesteThePirate, The Fuzy Llama and edge-of-reality for being spectacular and reviewing the last chapter.

**If you've read it, please review it.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR.**

-

"Hear you've moved back in with Weasley."

Hermione looked up. Blaise was looking rather unimpressed.

She did a quick mental panic and then latched onto the first excuse that came to mind. "It's a temporary thing. My washing machine broke, the entire flat's flooded." It was lame and she knew it but she hoped Blaise would know better than to question muggle matters.

He didn't look convinced. "And you're a witch for what? Why can't you clean it up?"

Mentally she kicked herself, good point. "Erm. Well, I need the insurance… It broke my TV and stereo and things. They're electric. I can't fix them with magic."

"Uh huh," Blaise raised an eyebrow. "You know, if you're sleeping with him you _can_ just tell me."

If the look of horror that graced her face then was not enough for him to forget that idea he was far stupider than she gave him credit for. "I- you- We're just _friends! _We've been just friends for the entire duration of our acquaintance bar the two disastrous months in seventh year! You _know _that!" she spluttered. "Don't- Don't _insinuate_!"

He just gave her a look.

"What? Don't look at me like that! And stop laughing!"

Blaise shut the door on the way out.

-

It had started with a passing comment to Remus on the way into work. A simple statement that Ronald Weasley could not cook. That was it. She hadn't thought anything of it but it would seem Miss Hannah Abbot, who happened to be in the same elevator as then, had.

Now, Blaise could have heard it from Remus but Lavender Brown? Penelope Clearwater? Padma Patil? She'd had women offering her congratulations all morning. It would appear half the Ministry believed her to have lived the past four years in an agony of unrequited love while Ron went off and made himself successful.

"You must be so happy!"

"Is it just like you remembered?"

"I heard he made you breakfast in bed!"

"Are those flowers from him?"

The flowers were from her dad. The breakfast was burnt toast he made for himself and she salvaged before he threw it away. And just like she remembered? He still snored, if that counted, she could hear it through two closed doors.

"Really, it's nothing like that, he's just putting me up for a few days while I get back on my feet. Yes, that's right, my strange muggle washing contraption broke. Yes, that will be a lesson to me. No! I told you! We're just friends!"

It was with a ragged sigh of relief that she settled down to eat her lunch in the muggle café around the corner. There was no chance of anyone bothering her here.

"So, how's your love life?"

Hermione paled at the sound of Harry's voice. Him too? She'd have thought he of all people would have known better. Eyes blazing she spun around to glare at him.

"Nonexistent as you well know! I don't know _where _you people get this from but do you honestly think me and Ron would be that stupid! He sleeps on the _sofa_, He does _not _make me breakfast in bed there was no 'passionate speech about re-igniting old flames'! We're just friends!"

Harry blinked.

"I mend Zabini."

Hermione gawked.

"And I was just joking," he amended.

"Not funny."

"'Course not," he said with a grin. "But what's all this about Ron?" he looked confused.

Hermione's eyes widened. He wasn't supposed to know.

"My washing machine broke," she mumbled, suddenly intently interested in her cup of coffee. "Flat flooded. He's got a spare room."

Harry raised an eyebrow, "He's got a spare room and yet you're making him sleep on the sofa?"

"Erm… The spare room's full?" she ventured, wanting more and more for the ground to open up and swallow her.

"You know, if you two are back together you can just tell me," he said with a smile. He was looking decidedly smug, like he thought he'd sussed out her riddles and knew exactly what was going on.

Hermione was beginning to worry she'd be unable to knock the idea out of him.

"I told you-"

He held up his hands, "Fine, fine," he gave her a cheeky grin, "Maybe later I'll go get the truth from him!"

Her appalled exclamation of "No!" was cut short by him apparating away.

She put her head in her hands. She was going to kill Hannah Abbot for this.

-

Ron sighed. He was working from home today, catching up on a bit of paper work at the same time as keeping his promise to Hermione and making sure nothing happened to Malfoy. Nothing had happened, which wasn't much of a surprise given the man was still stunned. He yawned and cracked his knuckles behind his back. He was really struggling to concentrate with the knowledge of what exactly lay behind the door to his spare room.

He still hadn't a clue what made him suggest that. Maybe he hadn't slept well enough the night before, perhaps someone spiked his drink? Then again maybe it was just something in the air. Hermione Granger breaking Draco Malfoy out of prison and Ron Weasley offering the ferret a room in his house, all in the space of a day? It was absurd. He shook his head. He really should be working.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Ron! Are you in?"

It was Harry.

Ron sent another look at Malfoy's locked room in alarm before standing and trying to piece together a believable reason to get rid of Harry. He didn't believe Hermione's threat to _kill_ him if he told their friend about Malfoy, but from the look on her face it seemed she was serious about not wanting the Death Eater in prison yet. The thought of watching Hermione stand against Harry in court arguing out the case of Draco Malfoy did not appeal to him at all and nor did the prospect of explaining to Harry exactly what Malfoy was doing in _his_ spare room.

He opened the door a crack.

"Yes?"

His best friend grinned at him.

"Aren't you going to invite me in? I hear congratulations are in order!"

Eh?

"You and Hermione?" the auror offered at the perplexed look on his friend's face.

Ron's eyes widened, remembering that he had no clue what excuse Hermione intended to use to cover up her staying with him. He'd just presumed she wouldn't tell anyone…

"Who told you?" he asked, hoping to buy time and get his answer out of Harry without risking a total guess at the cover story.

"Hermione. Well, she didn't _tell_, per sae, but it was pretty obvious, and all the girls in the office know about it. Jasmine, you know, my new secretary? She wouldn't shut up until I agreed to get the details from you," he rolled his eyes, "Girls. I mean, the things they find to gossip about! She doesn't even know the pair of you, she's only met Hermione once and besides seeing your face in the paper she barely knows who you are. Oh well, it was my lunch break and I haven't seen you in a few days so I thought I'd indulge her and find out exactly why you didn't tell me before!"

Ron stared at him, stepping back slightly to allow him to enter. "Tell you what?" he questioned in a way he hoped would come across in an I-know-exactly-what-you-are-talking-about-but-why-don't-you-tell-me-first sort of a way and not make him look as though he didn't actually have a clue what was going on.

"You and Hermione?"

Yes, you've said that part, Ron thought, "Tea?" he offered innocently. Me and Hermione what?

"You and Hermione back together again after almost four years? I thought you'd both given up on it."

Ron almost dropped the milk bottle. _That_ was her excuse?

"You alright, mate? You've gone pale."

Yes, and now I'm going bright red. What was she thinking? Couldn't she think of _anything_ else? This is going to be bloody awkward.

"She- I'm just surprised you know… We said we weren't going to tell anyone for a while," he covered. "Thought it would be best to try it out first, see if it was going to work… before we told… people."

"She's moved in with you and you thought you'd be able to keep it quiet?"

"Erm," Ron looked down at the kitchen counter in an attempt to find a response, "Tea?" he offered again.

Harry shook his head with a small smile, "Nah, I'm good. So tell me, when did all this happen?" he suddenly laughed, "Wait until you tell Ginny! She'd be delighted! She was always rooting for you two… I think she was more disappointed than you were when it didn't work out the first time."

Ron was not oblivious to the strange parallels between this conversation and the one he'd had the night before with Hermione as he begged Harry not to tell his sister. Or his mother. And definitely not _any_ of his brothers.

Sweet Merlin this was going to be hard. Just wait 'til she got home, Hermione was going to get one rather large piece of his mind.

-

He'd woken up slowly. It was almost like he could _feel_ consciousness as it slipped through nerves, _feel _the tingle of awakeness in each and every cell it reached. His eyes opened first, but the fact that the rest of his body was almost too stiff to move did not panic him. It would not be the first time he'd woken without the use of his limbs.

He groaned slightly at the onslaught of aches that wracked his body a second or two later. What happened to cause those, he wondered slightly before fragment by fragment it began to come back to him – the new cell, the man at the desk reading the Daily Prophet, _his _Daily Prophet. That sense of emptiness of mind, that gaping void where out of habit of inebriation no thoughts resided. That great freedom as his anger and pain seeped into that abyss and found something glowing at its centre.

Magic.

Weeks before he'd almost let himself forget the truth in his convictions. Weeks before it was nothing but names and memories. But there – glaring at the muggle and the magical paper – he felt something shift in him, like a memory of something he'd never registered doing, a memory of a heartbeat or a breath. A memory of casting a spell from the strength of that inner magical core, left dormant in the void when his wand was taken from him.

Hands pressed against the glass he had grabbed at that magic with all the strength his mind possessed.

The glass had shattered.

Granger had been there.

The memory ended.

He blinked.

The ceiling above him came into focus and he wondered for a second if the nightmares had stopped, if this was a true dream for the first time in forever. There was light there. Not the cold morgue glare of neon strips but the golden tinged glow of the setting sun. The ceiling was whitewashed, just as he remembered, only softer. Made of plaster.

A new cell?

No. Not a cell. A room.

He could feel the bed beneath him. Feel the mattress gently pushing up against his back. Feel the heavy presence of the quilt against his skin. It was warm. Not stuttering heater warm. Not attempted warm conjured by a thin blanket and feverish body heat. Real warm. The warmth of sunlight through a window and his own body wrapped up and comfortable.

Outside his door he heard a shout of horror.

"You said _what_?"

Granger? His mind fumbled through recollected images. Teary-eyed woman on the other side of the glass. Wand held poised. A bright smile at Harry Potter's elbow. A retreating back. A warrior of the war, eyes ablaze. A bushy haired schoolgirl, clutching an ugly cat. An old woman, standing tall in righteous anger. Fingers on the glass. A slap. Brown eyes. Arms around him as the world turned black.

She'd done it?

"Washing machine, Ron! I told him my washing machine broke!"

That was her voice, clear as the daylight that trickled across the ceiling.

"I spent the entire day telling people we were _not _back together!"

She'd got him out.

For a second thoughts of Azkaban and Death Eaters and shadows of the past he ran from for so long flitted behind his eyes, but the second passed.

His eyes fell shut again and he slid into real sleep. True, still, soul-healing sleep for the first time in a lifetime. He dreamt of bushy haired girls throwing cats at weasels and laughed to himself as they argued over how best to kill Harry Potter.

He was free.

-

**AN:** Happy Halloween! Almost. I love each and every one of you that reviewed, it really made my week. Thank you ali-lou, tahwekilelohcin, The Fuzy Llama, twin-v, Lucathia Rykatu, debarie, samhaincat, An Unpoetic Recluse, Moonlight Storm, kazfeist and edge-of-reality for reviewing chapter 9. And look! I _did_ update soon! Now that doesn't happen often.

_**If you read it please review it!**_


	11. Chapter 11

**Diclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR.**

**AN: Wow. How spontaneous am I? I'm gonna do this at the top of the chapter rather than the bottom. **Huge thank yous to trieste (really great to hear from you again, methoughtst you were dead. Hope life's all going well.), The Fuzy Llama (glad to have been of service – I had one of those days today, still feeling terrible though hopefully I'll sleep it off), twin-v (I am honoured, and you thought it was funny! That makes me more happy than it should do, I'm sure – I've never been any good at writing humour…), ali-lou (thank you –beams-), kazfeist (a bit belated but thank you so much for all your comments on all my fics - I was astounded when I saw the multitude of alerts and I promise I'll correct the errors I've scattered when I have the time) (oh, and what's Dramione? And how (and what) does one post on it?), An Unpoetic Recluse (point taken, I've updated, though alas it was not soon), samhaincat (I miss writing Draco. Maybe he'll stay conscious through all of next chapter?), edge-of-reality (you actually read andreviewed every fic I've written – you have no idea just how much that made my week. Thank you, thank you, thank you! You are fantabulous), ky-lee333 (they most certainly will, and shame on me – the quickness was never going to last), kris.t!n.e (thank you! I'm glad you liked it), Lucathia Rykatu ('oh Ron' indeed, I'm beginning to enjoy writing him a lot, who'd have thought I used to hate his guts?), debarie (I love you! Thank you again for you comments), tahwekilelohcin (ah, who knows… and thank you for your support, you're one of my longest surviving reviewers and hearing from you always makes me grin), Gwinna (complications and misunderstandings are fun! Glad you liked), Moonlight Storm (thank you and voila) and Rose of Zakarisz (anyone would think I was putting it off…). As ever, love you all.

-

He had a headache.

A big headache.

It was a headache of world's-greatest-hangover proportions. His thoughts grated like grinding bones and without even opening his eyes the light in the room was playing havoc with his braincells.

He whimpered.

"_Fuck_."

Somewhere at the sidelines a voice tutted.

His temples seared.

"Fuck." He muttered again.

"I told you," said the disembodied voice. "I told you and you just _wouldn't _listen. Typical, really. Seeing as you're the one that's going to have to deal with it today."

He frowned. He really didn't know what was going on. Had he been drinking? Had he forgotten? Why was his head throbbing so much?

"Look at the state of him," the voice turned accusatory, "This is _your_ fault, you know."

He was beginning to cotton on to the fact it wasn't talking to him, Her. It was a her. _She_ wasn't talking to him,

…But that meant there was someone else.

Memories skitted through his mind: anger, crashing glass, Granger and then darkness. And then light. He's woken up to light-

"Look, this has nothing to do with me, he's your charity case."

-Light and Granger's voice. He didn't remember anything else.

"If you think I'm babysitting him while you swan off to Zabini you've got another thing coming."

But that wasn't Granger's voice…

"Please, Ron, just for a few more hours. 'Til lunchtime?"

…Ron?…

"Look, I've got work to do too. And he looks like he's in a pissy mood. I don't want to be here when it wakes up."

He knew that voice… His jaw tightened at the recognition.

"The whole reason he's here is the fact that you didn't want _me_ to be alone with him when he woke up. And he's only in a pissy mood because you left that stunner on him until it wore off naturally, he's going to have the worst headache ever when he comes to…"

"I don't know how I got talked into this, Hermione. It's bloody _Malfoy_. In _my_ bloody house."

…Fuck… 

He knew that voice. Weasley. Ron fucking Weasley.

"Just keep an eye on him 'til I get back? I'll only be a few hours…"

The voices were trailing off; the couple were leaving the room.

"You know, I still spend hours trying to convince Fred I'm not wrapped around your little finger. How am I supposed to look him in the face when you've got me doing this?"

"You'll find a way, I'm sure."

The door closed.

Ron Weasley.

"Fuck." He muttered.

His head pounded.

-

"That's her," muttered Martins over his Latte, "There! See, walking towards the bridge!"

Thompson looked up, unimpressed, "You've said that twice already. I'm cold."

But the other man was already marching through the crowds of commuters.

It had been a day since the mysterious young couple had fallen on top of the old woman and they'd been pacing up and down the south bank with grim faces ever since. Their boss had been furious when they arrived back at Scotland Yard with no news on the couple, even more so when they revealed that they'd done nothing but sit on the river wall by a fabulously expensive set of apartments in the hopes that the pair would reveal themselves. He had insisted that two dangerous criminals, recently broken out from a mental hospital, would be highly unlikely to be taking refuge in a block of millionaire penthouse suites.

He said that, but it was growing increasingly obvious that they had nothing on either person. The woman, Marissa who (according to the distraught doctor) was in fact Hermione, twenty as opposed to the sixty, had dropped into a black hole age eleven, and even her parents were becoming remarkably difficult to trace. And the man? They had him on record only as 'Sir'. He was guilty of a long line of mysterious murders but was never fully prosecuted on the grounds of his clear insanity. The doctor called him Draco Malfoy, but that made him sound even more like a Marvel comic bad guy than the alias 'Sir', and beyond that she had little to offer besides the occasional 'this is terrible!'

The doctor was convinced that if they didn't get found it would increase to a level of risk to national security and her panicked attitude was really starting to wear down on the people working with her, namely their boss who was demanding that they pace up and down south bank until they someone or something that could tell them a little more about the whereabouts of the two escapees.

By now Martins had reached the road and was following the bushy haired woman at a slight jog. Thompson began to run after him but the other policeman stopped abruptly, his colleague sent skidding to a halt in order to avoid collision.

"She vanished," was all the other man could say.

-

She'd arrived in the Ministry only a few seconds late for the meeting she was supposed to be having with Harry and Blaise, but when she reached the office she was told Harry was on a raid and so she sat down opposite the remaining wizard, who was looking far more subdued than usual.

"Morning," she offered, but his only response was a vague grunt.

It was then that it occurred to her how her moving in with Ron could mess with the relationship her and Blaise had maintained for the past few years. She'd spent the previous night panicking about how awkward it was going to be around Harry and the Weasleys, but it never crossed her mind how it might effect him. Everyone had always said he only joined the department way back when because he liked her, but as he'd never done any more than flirt with her to get a rise out of her she'd thought nothing of it, passing off Harry's teasing as just that.

But now he was sitting quietly opposite her with his face utterly blank in a way that reminded her painfully of the Slytherins she'd grown to loath at school. She wasn't used to him acting like this.

"Cheer up," she offered.

He shifted in his chair and smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes.

'This is stupid', she sighed mentally.

"You know, there really is nothing going on between me and Ron."

He gave her a dry look. "Mmhm. Your washing machine broke."

"That's right," she nodded, sitting up professionally, "so if you don't mind I would like to get this sorted. I think it's a great plan, but we're going to need all the help we can get to get it going."

He rolled his eyes but smiled slightly, "Fire away, I do so love listening to your airy fairy schemes."

It was a plan she'd been pencilling out for a while now, her the driving force and brains of the operation, Harry the public face and crowd winner and Blaise the pureblood representative and general antagonist.

"You have got to be fucking joking."

But then, perhaps antagonist was the wrong word.

"No way in hell will they buy that."

Yes, he was particularly grouchy today, but she couldn't help feel somewhat offended at his outright refusal.

"Why not?"

"Because it's bollocks from start to finish?"

She liked to _think_ he was on her side-

"How so?"

-But somehow the idea of Live-Like-A-Muggle-Day really rubbed him up the wrong way.

"Okay. Your proposal is to effectively _ban_ the use of magic for an entire day?"

"Discourage the use of to buil-"

"To build a greater level of understanding yadda yadda yadda. It's all shite."

"You can't say that!"

"I can and I will, Granger. This is the most utterly ridiculous plan you've ever come up with."

She spluttered.

"You can't enforce it, you know that."

"We won't need to," she sat up, "It'll start up optional and if we can get enough people on our side we'll be able to lead the way for other magical nations and really improve levels of muggle-magical understanding right across the globe!"

He raised an eyebrow. "You're living in a dream world, Granger."

"I am not! You underestimate people! Not everyone thinks like you, you know!"

"Granger, I promise you, there are far more people out there thinking like me than there are thinking like you. You cannot win this one."

She glared. "With your backing I might be able to."

"Do you honestly think you'll get this past the Wizgamot? They're centuries more archaic than me!"

"It's not like I'm asking much! Just to take muggle transport to work, or make food without a wand! You don't need to give up magic!"

"Muggle transport destroys the atmosphere, muggle food preparation spreads germs."

"Zabini!"

He sat back, his stance challenging, "You wanted my help. It's true. That's exactly what their argument is going to be. If you can't fight back to me how are you going to with them?"

"But-"

"It's ludicrous, Granger."

"But if you could just show your support, then maybe other people would follow!"

"I have absolutely no support to show. This is stupid! How many times am I going to have to spell out my opinion on it to you?"

"It's just a matter of a little bus journey! They're really not that bad now, there's less graffiti and if you time it right you'll be able to miss rush hour altogether."

"Granger, number one, I am not coming to work by bus. I live in _Bristol_. And number two? Make convincing Lucius Malfoy your aim, okay? Because he's the sort of person you're going to be up against. "

Hermione flinched.

Malfoy.

She looked at the clock.

Two-thirty.

Damn.

"What?" asked Blaise.

"Damn."

He looked at her.

"I… I was supposed to be…" she cringed, "back at Ron's by twelve."

At that Blaise looked away, "Well, best call it a day then," he said, sitting back in his chair, "wouldn't want you to be late."

Slightly distracted from the frantic gathering of her stationary by his odd tone she looked up, but he was already swinging his coat over his shoulder.

"See you tomorrow, Granger."

She stood up to watch him leave.

"Right," she said.

She blinked and looked back down at her scattered belongings, momentarily at a loss at to what she was supposed to be doing.

"Trouble in paradise?"

She started, head shooting up to find Harry standing in the doorway.

"Well, Zabini just wandered past with a face like a wet rag and Ron just called me to say that you'd stood him up and that if you didn't get your arse back home he'd be forced to do something he regretted."

She stared at him.

Harry shrugged, "It was a cryptic message, I tried not to think too hard about its meaning."

She tried to ignore the somewhat suggestive tone he applied to the last part of the sentence.

"But yeah, I didn't want to tell him you were still with Zabini, so I said you were out shopping with Ginny."

"You said what?"

Hermione's eyes widened.

"He's going to _kill_ me."

-

Two minutes later found her in Ron's sitting room while he shouted himself blue in the face.

"Shopping! You said you had a horrifyingly important meeting to go to and I Floo over and you're _shopping_!"

"No! I wasn't! Ask Ginny! I didn't even see her toda-"

"I have sat here for _hours_ wondering what the hell was taking you so long, doing business meetings via owl-"

"I didn't see Ginny! I was with Zabini! And I told you to get yourself a phone - Owls are too slow for-"

"And now we've probably lost the damn deal because some sweet talking French representative actually managed to _show up_ and therefore made a better impression while I sat here babysitting _your_ insane ferret!"

"Babysitting? Ha! I bet you haven't opened that door all day!"

"And so what if I haven't? You were supposed to be back by lunchtime!"

She glared at him. "Has he woken up yet?"

He glared back. "How am I supposed to know?"

With a 'huff' she turned on heel, intent on marching straight over to Malfoy's door but no sooner had she turned that she stopped still.

"You two bicker like a married couple."

She stepped back, eyes wide and vaguely heard Ron's intake of breath as he stiffened in shock behind her.

His voice was hoarse, hoarse and hollow like she remembered it from that encounter in the cell; words suggesting a snotty condescension reminiscent of those years before the war, but no echo of it was found in his tone. He leant against the doorframe in those hospital pyjamas like prince gracing the court, but all the while his face was gaunt with grey eyes sunken in grey sockets. High cheekbones no longer looked regal but scull-like and while his stance screamed pride there was something in his face that made her blood run cold.

Her throat tightened as she swallowed.

He didn't look real. A pale vision in monochrome against the orange glow of the sitting room wall.

"Stupify."

The ghost fell.

She hadn't even noticed Ron raise his wand.

-

They were sitting in shock at the kitchen table when the owl arrived.

It was from Blaise and she answered it immediately, leaving Ron to dump Malfoy back in his room. She wasn't sure what it was that had rattled her so much but she suddenly felt exactly as she had all those days ago when the mysterious muggle showed her to the underground cell.

"_Meet me at the Ministry, ten minutes. It's urgent."_

She arrived in the foyer dead on time, somewhat sooty but impossibly grateful for the familiar buzz of a hundred witches and wizards passing through the hall. But no sooner had she stepped towards the elevator than Blaise Zabini practically pounced on her.

"We have a problem."

-

And problem was right. She'd followed him down to the Department of Mysteries at a breakneck pace, other wizards flattening themselves against the walls to avoid them and when they got there she was faced with a simple muggle computer screen.

"Interpol," the open browser read.

She had almost bolted at the sight of it, fully expecting to read her name and see one of those computer generated likenesses of herself plastered up for everyone in the world to hunt.

But it wasn't her face she saw.

Blaise watched her grimly.

"He's just escaped a muggle mental hospital. He was being kept there by MI5."

She frantically thought of a way (any way) to act convincing as she proclaimed her shock, but what Blaise said next very nearly stopped her heart.

"His doctor was the same person who contacted you last week. Isabelle Grey," he cocked his head to get a better look at her face. "I need you to tell me exactly what happened when you went to meet her."

Staring out of the screen was a still image of Draco Malfoy, labelled simply as 'Sir'. She suddenly found her breathing laboured. That look on his face – blank, hollow emptiness. That was the face she'd just seen. The face Ron had just stupefied. She blinked at the screen. She and Ron were harbouring an official internationally wanted criminal.

"Hermione?" asked the wizard beside her.

And she was going to have to tell Blaise Zabini (of all people!) everything.

-

**If you've read it please review it.**


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: **I think I just made it a lot more complicated.

Mahusive thanks to Anonymous, Moonlight Storm, becky, Lrnd, The Fuzy Llama, ali-lou, An Unpoetic Recluse, xx Kyani, Lucathia Rykatu, twin-v, Gwinna, saige, samhaincat, MaraG.Poe, Hidden Relevance, Silidons, kazfeist, Rose of Zakarisz, debarie and edge-of-reality, I don't have time to reply individually right now, but just so you know- you're all spectacular :D

-

Blaise was looking at her with expectant eyes.

"I…um… It… er," she struggled to find anything satisfactory to say. Head beginning to ache she reached out to lean on the desk…

…And to her absolute horror found herself crumpling into a heap of tears.

"I'm not seeing Ron-" she blurted out by way of explanation, "-and I never went shopping with Ginny," her nose began streaming and she quickly attempted to wipe it with the back of her hand, doing everything within her power not to look at Blaise's face. "And Harry's going to _hate_ me," she dissolved into sobs again.

"Erm," Blaise reached out a comforting arm before quickly retracting it. "Sorry it didn't work out with Weasley?" he didn't know what to say.

He watched in confusion as this comment only made her toss glare at him, "It was never going to 'work out' with Ron because-" but at that point her eyes fell on the image of Draco Malfoy on the computer screen and she fell silent again.

Shaking her head she slumped into the computer chair she muttered, "He should be dead." This time her voice was hollow.

They sat in silence until her breathing slowed to normal and then Blaise shifted to stand, "I'm sorry about that… I shouldn't have assumed you knew anything," he stopped; Hermione was staring at him with something akin to ecstatic relief. "What?"

"Oh! Nothing. You're right. I don't know what's going on any more than you do."

She was looking at him defiantly, chin tilted slightly as she stared him down. "Err… Right." In any other situation that look would have set alarm bells ringing and he'd have given her the full Spanish Inquisition, but watching her completely lose all semblance of composure moments before had unnerved Blaise more than he liked to admit. He decided to just go with it, in a way, his brain couldn't help but comment, he'd only do for her.

The slight frown leaving his face Blaise turned back to the computer screen. Draco Malfoy would have to wait.

"So… What's this about you and Weasley not working out?" he tried to look concerned, "You want to talk about it?"

She smiled slightly and shook her head, turning back to the screen. "Who have you told about this?" she asked.

Blaise frowned. "No one. Marigold isn't in yet, but she'll have to be told at some point. And then Potter and Hawkins," he paused. "And you. They'll want you back on the case, Granger. You knew more about him than anyone back then."

Hermione sighed, clasping her hands so Blaise wouldn't see them shaking, "Look, Zabini… Felix is fine, he'll handle it the way he handles everything, but Harry – you can't tell him. Not yet." She took a shaky breath. "Malfoy's his weak point. The one loose end he wasn't able to tie up at the end of the war. We can't tell him. He… It'll become an obsession. Being a plain, everyday auror has never… never really been enough for him. He spent years fighting evil… robberies and assault are somewhat lacking when compared to the danger we put ourselves in back then… He still blames himself for so much of what happened. And he blames Malfoy. If we'd caught him sooner the Black Samhain would never have happened, all those muggles… He blames… He'd kill him. He'd kill him faster than we could even _say_ 'Azkaban'." She looked straight at Blaise. "Malfoy was a bad man, but he deserves a trial at least. Harry… I love him, I really do. But I wouldn't trust him. Not with this."

Blaise stared at her.

"Okay," he nodded. "Of course it's up to you. But do you think you and Hawkins can manage this on your own?"

She looked away. "He's just one man, Zabini," she swallowed. "I'll… get in touch with Dr Grey…" she wiped her clammy hands on the trousers, praying Blaise wouldn't see through her, "We'll find him."

-

She made her way home the long way, buying a hot chocolate and wandering down to the river. Sitting on a wall above Embankment she watched droves of muggle tourists marching purposefully up to Westminster to have there photo taken grinning madly in front of Big Ben. She sighed; they still didn't have a clue.

It had been four years since the war ended. Four years and so little had changed.

Well, straight out you wouldn't say that, but in essence… Harry was still fighting, Ron was still out to prove himself, she was still battling to be heard and Malfoy was still running. And the muggle world was still in danger, though admittedly no longer from Voldemort… But that was one thing she'd learnt over the years. It wasn't all black and white, good and evil, us and them. Voldemort was gone but that didn't mean the threat was. Infinite hues of grey stood between him and her and so many of them wished these people harm.

She looked up at the gold clock tower, wondering how many muggles remembered how it had looked five years ago. And she knew the answer. Five. Five ordinary people in the entire country knew what happened to Big Ben that October, the rest forgot the moment they went to sleep. She was there with Harry and the Minister when they explained things to the Prime Minister. Him, the head of MI5, the head of MI6, the leader of the army and the head of Scotland Yard. That was it. They'd been told, placated and then sworn to secrecy. The rest of the country had been obliviated that night. She remembered Emmeline Vance complaining at the time it had taken to delete all the video footage of the spell fire crumbling the tower to dust. And the rebuilding had only been completed five months ago… For three years muggle tourist after muggle tourist had been taking pictures of a mere illusion.

With another sigh she stood again, traipsing back to Ron's house aching at the thought of her situation.

-

Thompson cringed, holding the phone away from his ear.

"YOU LOST HER?" screamed the voice of his boss, loud enough for Martins to hear three feet away.

"Well," began the policeman, but he was cut short as the other man continued his tirade.

"ONE SIMPLE TASK! ONE! THAT'S ALL I ASKED OF YOU AND YOU _LOST_ HER?"

"It might not even have been her," he offered, and this time the response was more of an enraged howl than any recognisable string of words. He cringed, stepping out of the way of a dejected looking brunette in her early twenties, she smiled at him in thanks and he nodded his head by way of greeting while his phone continued to rant at him.

Beside him Martins turned round from where he'd been watching a boat make its way down the river. He froze.

Frantically making neck-cutting motions with his hand he flapped his arms and pointed at the retreating back of the woman Thompson had just let past.

'That's her!' He mouthed.

Thompson blanched. Gathering his wits he gasped into the phone, "Sorry, Boss. We gotta go!" before sprinting off after his partner.

"She went down there!" hissed Martins, dragging the other man down a narrow alley between two of the mirror fronted apartment blocks. 'This is more like it', he thought. It was far more suited to insane criminals than the fancy buildings either side of him… funny how they'd never noticed it before…

The alley twisted and turned as they leapt over dustbins and splashed through puddles chasing the shadowy footsteps of the woman they were looking for. The darkness grew less as they ran and suddenly they found themselves out in the open again. Martins skidded to a halt, Thompson barely avoiding crashing behind him.

"Wha-?" Martins stopped himself.

"We're… back out here…" Thompson blinked. They were back by the riverbank and there was no sign of the brunette.

Martins turned round, mouth open in bewilderment at what he saw. "The alley…"

It was gone. Behind them was nothing but a brick wall.

"What the hell?" muttered Thompson beside him. "What just happened?

-

"Unstupify him, Ron."

"What?"

"I need to talk to him."

"_Talk_ to him?" Ron's eyes bulged as though the very notion was ludicrous. "What did Zabini have to say? What? You can't just barge in and… What's going on!"

"UNSTUPIFY HIM!"

Ron blinked at her in shock.

"Fine," he muttered, holding up his hands.

Taking great care not to look at his face Hermione hauled Malfoy's body into a sitting position before binding his arms to the bed behind him. She stepped back with a defiant glance at Ron and he raised his wand, muttering the counter-curse.

Malfoy's gasped like a drowning man breaking the surface of water. His chest shook and his head fell forward, the greasy strands of his unwashed hair hanging down to obscure his face. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief; at least she wasn't going to have to meet his eyes just yet.

"Malfoy," she started, almost cringing at how pathetically uncertain her voice sounded. "Malfoy," she tried again, far better, more commanding. "Draco Malfoy, do you remember who I am?"

She could see the muscles across his shoulders strain as he tried to twist away from whatever was binding his arms. He didn't answer; she could sense Ron tense behind her.

"Malfoy, do you know where you are?" She flashed Ron a warning look. "Do you remember what happened?"

He raised his head at this, enough for her to just make out the glint of his eyes through the curtain of his hair.

"Granger," he bit out, managing to fill the two simple syllables with such bitterness that she very nearly recoiled. "Granger and Weasley."

Hermione could feel her pulse speeding up.

Taking a steadying breath she sat down on the chair placed at the end of the bed, "Malfoy, there's a lot I have to tell you."

-

Felix Hawkins was a bright man. He'd been a year below the Golden Trio at Hogwarts, a Ravenclaw from a middlish class pureblood family. His father had worked in the Ministry and when Hogwarts shut before he began his sixth year he was sent off to his aunt in Ireland where he was to be home schooled. His parents had thought he would be safe there, but safe wasn't what the young man wanted. When his father was killed in a duel with a drunken Death Eater Felix returned home, tracking down the remnants of the fabled Order of the Phoenix and offering his services to Harry Potter. He'd been put on the Malfoy case with Hermione Granger and Pansy Parkinson and through that gained himself a job as an auror without ever graduating Hogwarts.

They'd never found Malfoy but remembering the speeches he'd watched Hermione write to present to the Ministry archive officials to gain access to their files he still considered their campaign to be a success. She'd been obsessive at points and through working with her he'd learnt exactly how _not_ to react in stressful situations. She'd have died a martyr a hundred times if it weren't for those friends of hers…

He sighed, rolling up another scroll. The reopening of the Malfoy Snr. case really bought back memories. He'd thought he'd never have to look at their blasted accounts again, but alas, it was not to be.

"Alright, Potter?" Felix looked up at the sound of Blaise Zabini's voice over by Harry's desk. Now he was a strange one… Ask anyone and they wouldn't be able to tell you what side the Slytherin had taken in the war.

"Don't mind if I borrow Hawkins for the afternoon do you? Classified Mysteries errand, if you know what I mean. I'd love to tell you, of course, but this has to stay hushed up."

Felix scooted his chair back to see Zabini smirking at Harry. Harry raised an eyebrow before rolling his eyes and waving the other man off. "He's all yours," and then to Felix, "Just get that report back to me by the end of the week, yeah?"

Felix grinned, "Sure thing, boss." He leapt to his feet, following Zabini back towards the lift. "So, what's the Mystery?" he asked the other man, trying not to look to delighted at the prospect of a change of scenery.

Zabini raised a superior eyebrow, smirking slightly before exiting the lift without a word, "You'll see," he said a few moments later.

Still very much in the dark Felix sat as told upon entering the Department of Mysteries, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the theatrical tendencies of this department. Zabini had taken a seat on the other side of the table with Marigold Humphrey sitting beside him. The room resembled a muggle interrogation chamber, complete with dark walls and bright light. The big woman sniffed loudly, frowning disapprovingly at Felix as he slumped back and waited for someone to speak.

It was Zabini that broke the silence eventually, looking up from the muggle laptop computer he'd been tapping away with.

"I've already spoken to Hermione Granger about this, and it's her wish that Harry Potter is not involved."

Felix frowned, sitting forward as Zabini continued.

"We have reason to believe it's necessary to reopen a case you closed four years ago," he looked down at the computer before swinging it around to face Felix, "Recognise anyone?"

It was the Interpol website, he was vaguely familiar with it, having used it once to track down a serial magical torturer from Argentina with Harry. The muggle authorities were after him too and that website had given them a few scraps of missing information. He looked down the list of faces on the screen before him, wondering what Zabini was on about, and then stopped breathing.

"Malfoy," he muttered, eyes wide as colour drained from his face. "We… we thought he was dead."

Marigold spoke now for the first time. "We're setting you up with Granger, Hawkins. Don't worry about Potter, we'll arrange a suitable diversion for him. We need you to understand the gravity of the situation here. No one but you, Mr Zabini, Ms Granger and myself must know anything of this, understood? His face will be removed from Interpol within the hour and from then on it is entirely up to you two to find him," she sat forward, "And he _must _be found, Hawkins. He's the only Death Eater left unaccounted for, and with the reopening of the Malfoy Snr. case… He _must_ be found."

Felix took a shaky breath.

-

She wasn't looking at him. Was it unreasonable that he wanted her to look up, to acknowledge him with more than just commands? Weasley was there too, ready to spring. Draco was tempted to snort, ever the sidekick.

"It's been four years, did you know that?"

Of course he did. She'd given him the _Prophet_ only a few days ago. He could read.

She frowned slightly at his dry look of response.

"When you were on the run, at the end of the war, your father allowed Lord Voldem-"

He felt an iron grip on his arm, the tattoo burning bright with blood behind his eyes, beneath his skin. He let out a moan as the pain intensified and tried to snatch the arm to his chest, but it was bound, he couldn't move; the brand aching and making him want to writhe in agony.

Across the room from him Granger stared in shock.

"You-Know-Who," she stammered. "You-Know-Who."

He growled and thrashed, but his hands stayed trapped and her fell still, breathing heavily and glaring at her from behind a dirty blond fringe. It had been a very long time since he heard that name. Not even his nightmares dared to whisper it.

Distinctly rattled Granger continued, "Your father gave his house up to You-Know-Who. Your family's manor. We knew he was in there and as the war went on he closeted himself there, never coming out. The magic your family laid down there when they built it ensured that in times of danger no one without Malfoy blood would be able to get through the barriers and the magic held fast. All of your family was either dead or in the manor with Vol- You-Know-Who, that is, all your family but you." she took a deep breath. "It was my job to find you, we needed your blood, you probably know that. I almost did it a few times, but you always got away."

He stared at her, somehow awed at what was being said to him, He remembered all right. Shadows, everywhere he went. He'd settle down, terrified, hiding in some muggle hole, living off of magic, stealing from muggles in fear of what would happen if he re-entered the magical world. And then there'd be a whisper of _her_ presence and he'd have to leave again. He'd thought he was going mad. He saw her everywhere, sometimes accompanied by Potter, Weasley, even Dumbledore. He threatened her once and she'd laughed. He couldn't kill, she'd said, and then he'd remembered that damned lightening struck tower and the ocean of green fading to black and Snape grabbing his arm and running and running and running until he had nowhere else to go. He'd killed then. Muggles. Lots of them. ("_You will do better next time or your mother will die."_) (_He wondered if she had_.)

"In the end I didn't find you. I didn't have to. How it happened isn't important anymore, but we won the war," he didn't miss the triumph in her eyes, the tilt of her chin and the added confidence in her voice. She thought she was better than him. "And you were forgotten. Taken to be dead." She shook her head, "It shouldn't have happened, I know, and I'm so sorry we never found you, because I know Azkaban would have been better for you than what you ended up with, but so much was dropped when the war ended. It was a fresh start, a new beginning…"

She trailed off as he stared at her. He felt the urge to yell and scream, but he had nothing to say, and settled with an almighty death glare.

"Me and Felix, we were the ones chasing you. He's an auror now… But anyway. Nothing more was heard on you until last week where Dr Grey, the blonde woman looking after you," he snorted, "tried to contact me. Blaise Zabini, you remember him? From Hogwarts?" he stared at her. Zabini? "He works with me now in the Department of Equal Rights as well as in the Department of Mysteries. He found out and told me. I met her and she told me you said my name in your sleep and she took me to you and the rest you know.

"I shouldn't have broken you out but what's happened as a result is what I need to tell you." The intensity of her gaze kept him silent, watching, waiting for her to continue her monologue. "Where you are now, this is Ron Weasley's apartment. You owe him a great deal in allowing you to stay here and if you don't treat him with a decent amount of respect I have no doubt that he will have you shipped off to Azkaban in the blink of an eye. I was called in by Zabini a few hours ago. Your face is up on Interpol – the muggle international aurors – and the Department of Mysteries are demanding that your case is reopened. By now they'll have contacted Felix and it's only through my begging Zabini that Harry hasn't been told."

He stared at her wide-eyed.

"They want me to head the investigation." This was addressed to Weasley, standing slumped against the wall in shock. "And I said I would," then turning back to him, "So I think you'll both appreciate the complexity of the situation I'm in now," she took a shaky breath, looking up.

She met his eyes and he felt his entire being burn with what he saw there. Resentment, bitter seething shame and the faintest hint of an apology; he felt it to his toes.

"I don't know what made me apparate you out of there, Malfoy," he realised in confusion that she was crying, "But I'm going to lose everything I have if this gets out. So both of you," she looked back at Weasley, "I'd appreciate it if both of you could cooperate on this."

She left a short while after that, shoulders sagging, leaving him tied to the bed.

He heard her and Weasley yelling through the door for the better part of the night.

"_What were you thinking? You should have just told him! They'd have taken the ferret into custody and it wouldn't have anything more to do with you!"_

"_But – we're hiding him from them! It's against the law! We'll be sent to Azkaban!"_

"_Hermione, we've not done anything wrong yet! But the moment you start pretending to search for Malfoy, then we're in trouble." _

"_Ron, what am I doing?"_

"_I don't know, Hermione. But if you don't stop I have feeling we're both going to regret this."_

"_Just… just a few more days? There's so much I need to ask him… From back then. I… Everything we found out. I need to know if it was true."_

He hadn't the faintest what she was talking about, the whole situation seemed absurd. If he was them he'd have kicked him straight into Azkaban. Of course, he was grateful she hadn't… but he didn't understand her reasoning at all.

-

_**If you've read it please review it**_


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: **Sorry for the wait but I had bucket-loads of writers block to contend with not to mention a very busy Christmas, New Year and a week of mocks that has only just finished. And… I GOT INTO CAMBRIDGE! Okay. Technically I still have to get three A's at A-Level but nergh, nothing you say or do (or the atrocious marks I'm going to get back in the mocks I just took) will convince me I'm going anywhere else! –dances- Life is G-O-O-D! –grins- But yeah, three months since I last updated this. I suck, I know, sorry.

Anyway, the THANK YOUs go to: **Dreaming One** (it was your review that kick started me into writing this chapter, I'll admit I didn't fully understand what you said about it being 'non-linear' but I certainly liked the idea:)), **badaddiction** (you are completely forgiven, and I'm glad you like the characterisation, that's one thing I cannot stand – bad characterisation – so yay! Thank you.), **An Unpoetic Recluse** (consider me honoured), **tahwekilelohcin** (I've never seen V for Vendetta and this was just the first of a barrage of things that kept pushing me towards the film. Still haven't seen it and just this morning I found the graphic novel cited in a review of the new 300 film. Strange… But yeah, thanks for the review!), **ali-lou** (lol – 'little early' might be right, but Draco Ron bonding sessions are fun, I'll see what I can do…), **becky** (and thank YOU for reviewing), **Rose of Zakarisz** (I'm glad you think so, I just hope I can keep it up…), **The Fuzzy Llama** (I'm quite proud of the name Felix Hawkins, to be honest with you, I wrote it down and smiled to myself), **Gwinna** (glad you liked it), **Airlady** (thank you –beams-), **samhaincat** (complications are fun! And yeah, I keep having to stop myself screwing Draco up further, it's my inner sadist), **debarie** (thank you, I love writing Draco, I think I might go off and write a one shot or something sometime soon, I'm feeling museful for the first time in AGES), **Moonlight Storm** (sorry it was such a long wait, glad you liked), **twin-v** (I'm so pleased you liked it, I'm aiming for more dramione interaction, but every chapter I seem to wriggle out of writing it, ah well, we'll see…), **Silidons** (I'm glad you liked it, thank you!), **ky-lee333** (she certainly has :) and thank you!) and **kazfeist** (again, thank you so much for your comments, it's always great to hear from you, and I am utterly ashamed it's taken me so long to get round to writing this.)

-

"Hermione, I don't want you going to work today."

"What?" she looked at Ron over her bowl of cereal.

"It's a Saturday. You used to take weekends off, just because you run the Department doesn't mean you can't now."

She frowned, what he said was true, but if she stayed at home she'd end up having to have that conversation with Malfoy, and she really wasn't ready for that right now. Her eyes strayed to the door of the spare bedroom, brows creasing further.

"You can't put it off forever, Hermione. If you're keeping him here against the law I at least want you to make some form of progress on your little crusade thing. I don't understand what it is you want out of him-" he stopped himself as his voice began rising in indignation. "What I mean is," he continued in a placating tone, "that I've got a lot of work to catch up with so I'm going to have to go into the office and maybe even trek over to the continent to finish up the deal I almost lost yesterday, and as we can't leave him here alone why don't you cash in a little bit of the three years worth of holiday you've accumulated and keep the criminal company? Find out what you need to find out and then we can throw him back where he belongs, yeah?"

She looked at him bleakly before sighing. "Fine. I'll Floo Remus after I've finished this."

He looked relieved, smiling at her before heading towards the bathroom, "I think you've made the right decision, Hermione."

He was probably right, she conceded, taking another spoonful of soggy cornflakes. She didn't feel up to facing Felix about the Malfoy case and if she was to be tied up pretending to be trying to hunt the man down Remus would have to start getting used to doing her job some time soon anyhow.

"I'll see you later," yelled Ron a few minutes later, slamming the door behind him and as silence set in again she cast a cleaning charm her bowl. She pottered around the kitchen for a few more minutes, Flooed Remus saying she was getting those migraines again and could do with a day off, owled Felix and Blaise with the same excuse and then cleaned the kitchen and the sitting room.

It was nearly midday when she finally followed her wandering eyes over to the door of the spare room.

It opened with a slight creak and she found herself breathing a sigh of relief when she saw that he was still sleeping. Checking again that her wand was still in her pocket she shuffled in and sat herself down in the chair at the end of the bed.

His hands were still bound to the back of the bed and his arms were twisted uncomfortably to enable him to slump in a slightly more manageable position. His head rested heavily on his chest, rising and falling with each breath, and his hair hung over his face, obscuring everything but the slight frown that could still be seen residing between his eyes. Suddenly he was exactly how she remembered him - sullen rather than tortured. Watching him from the chair she was sorely tempted to undo his arms and lie him down properly, but years of caution stayed her hands.

She wasn't sure what it was but his motionless form seemed to draw some sort of confession out of her. How often was she going to get the chance to just talk _at_ him? She had so much she wanted to berate him for and with it hanging over her was she really going to get anywhere with her questioning? No. And if she ranted at him before he'd properly adjusted would he ever cooperate enough for her to be able to justify any of what she'd done over the past few days? No.

That concluded she sat up a little straighter and checked once more that he was still asleep.

"Good morning," she whispered.

-

If Felix had had any idea what it was Zabini had planned to 'divert' Harry he'd have baled right there and then, and he was pretty sure Hermione would have done the same. Not wanting him involved was one thing, but this was just plain cruel. He had his moments, but there were times when there was no doubting the fact that Blaise Zabini was a Slytherin.

"-And they've just _re-opened _it. Like there was any room for dispute in the first place!" His boss waved his wand about in an alarming manner, red in the face and practically smoking at the ears.

"Look, I'm sure they have good reason for it…" Felix almost cringed at his pathetically weak tone.

"Good reason! The man's a murderer, a mutinous turncoat. He KILLED Dumbledore. I _SAW_ him do it! I was _there_ and they're trying to tell me they've got reason to believe he was on our side all along! A new trial? He didn't even deserve the FISRT one!"

Yes, Blaise Zabini inventing new evidence to support Severus Snape's defence had to be the lowest, most Slytherin diversion that ever issued from the Department of Mysteries, but there was nothing Felix could do but go along with it. That and hope to god he wasn't anywhere near when _Ron Weasley_ found out.

"Look, Harry, I only really popped in to get these papers, so if you don't mind…"

"Yeah, sure. I just. I can't believe they'd do something so stupid…" he sighed, "You didn't see Jasmine on your way up here did you? Her lunch break should have just finished and she's never been late before."

At the Felix laughed, "Maybe she was accosted by one of your fangirls on the way back in?"

"Yeah, maybe," sighed Harry, glaring down at the memo in front of him.

"I'll see you later, Harry," he said, scooping up a bundle of scrolls, "Don't let them get to you, yeah?"

"Yeah," affirmed the living legend before him, "See you."

-

In a powder pink suite with powder pink cushions, powder pink carpet and powder pink curtains there sat a two women, one dressed in a powder pink set of robes and the other in smart black office wear. Between them powder pink sweets sat in a frosted glass dish on a rosewood desk and on that desk a lime green feather scribbled.

Pansy Parkinson looked over at her Quick-Quotes-Quill, sharply snapping, "That's enough."

The smartly dressed girl opposite her froze with the magical feather.

"Not you!" hissed Pansy. "Go on…"

"Erm…" The girl looked uncertainly between the blonde woman and the evil looking quill. "That's all Harry said really. That they're back together and they don't really want anyone to find out."

Pansy smirked evilly. "He was telling the wrong person then, wasn't he?"

"You're not going to cite me are you?" The girl shifted in her powder pink seat, "The contract stated I could remain anonymous."

"Of course not, dear," smiled Pansy, "I'll just leave the public wondering how I am always so well informed, no need to mention _names_. Besides. You're no good to me without that job of yours."

The girl looked uncomfortable. "You know, I don't _like_ doing this. He's been very good to me since I started working for him, it's just…"

"I pay better?"

"Well…Yeah."

"Don't worry about it, love. If they wanted you to remain loyal they'd be paying you a hell of a lot more than minimum wage."

The girl looked sceptical, "Right."

"Don't underestimate the power of the media, love," said Pansy. "By dressing up the gossip of their offices I make it look like they're a _fun_ place to work. The more desirable the job looks, the less people will expect to be paid to do it, the more money saved for those extra little luxuries in the Minister's office. Seriously. They love it."

"Right."

"Don't look so nervous, love," she looked at the clock, "Anyway, you should be getting back, shouldn't you?"

Jasmine stooped to pick up her coat, carefully sliding her pay packet into the pocket.

"It was a pleasure talking to you, love," purred Pansy, picking up the sheaf of notes her quill had made during the interview. "Be sure to look in on tomorrow's column."

Jasmine looked back. "Yeah, I'll see you later."

As the door swung shut Pansy stretched back in her chair, grinning like a Cheshire cat; this was the best story she'd had in months.

Pulling her magical typewriter towards her she started to type.

-

Zabini hadn't been too welcoming; simply route marched Felix down the corridor, snapping "no touching" as they passed walls of strange objects emitting odd sounds before pointing him to the box of a room he was going to be calling an office. He looked over to the window: it was dark. It didn't really compare to the airy expanses of the aurors' partitioned floor, but dumping his stack of scrolls on the dusty table he didn't feel too much like arguing; it had been a long time since he'd been working on anything as exciting as this.

"Granger isn't going to be in today, but you'll probably need the day to re-familiarise yourself with the case anyway," said Blaise before turning on heel and leaving Felix to his own devices.

Sending another glance at the fake nighttime city outside his window he realised that this must have been one of the old night-worker's rooms. They simulated daytime at night in the same way that they simulated daytime underground here, Felix had always wondered whose job it was to design the window views… During the war they cut out all the night shifts in the Ministry for security reasons and even four years later not all of those jobs had been reinstated, leaving a number of these strange nocturnal rooms available as and when people like Blaise Zabini wanted to use them.

Pulling a candle off one of the wall brackets he shoved it into the candlestick on the table to cast more light over the scrolls he had piled around him. Knocking a few of them aside he pulled out the leather bound journal they'd kept during the Malfoy Hunt.

He ran his hands over the worn cover, feeling for the magical clasp charmed into the spine. Muttering a short incantation he pulled apart the covers, the book falling open on the table before him. The front page was blank, a strange habit of Hermione's, but the second contained a full page of her neat print.

"Albus Dumbledore dies four months ago to this day," he read aloud, face growing grim as the memories resurfaced, "and three weeks ago we intercepted as message stating that Draco Malfoy had escaped from Snape. We have heard no new of his whereabouts since but recent discoveries have made it obvious that he will have to be found…" he trailed off, scanning through the page that dutifully recorded the complex matrix of wards that kept anyone without Malfoy blood from entering their Manor. She had even explained previous attempts to gain entry and their outcomes and what had led the Order to believe that Lord Voldemort was living within its walls.

This was all before he'd joined them, there were photos stuck in of the R.A.B. note and the empty locket and then flicking through a few pages he found stuck in pages ripped from old parchment books detailing the cup of Helga Hufflepuff. A few pages on a photo of the actual cup itself was detailed, following a few pages containing maps and blueprints of the area in which it had been found.

It was an amazing record and in years to come it would most likely be one of the most sort after relics of the war, detailing so many of the Golden Trio's exploits. It wasn't a diary; it contained nothing about the private life of any of the Order members, at times it read like an academic account and at others simply a notebook used to scrawl down any wild possibilities. He kept flicking until he came to the point at which he had joined them, finding a photo of him chatting animatedly with Mad-Eye Moody. A week later he'd been asked to help Hermione with her research and, a true Ravenclaw, he agreed without too much disappointment at the loss of potential field action. It was at this point that his writing joined hers in the book and there was less mention of Horcruxes as she dealt with them separately with Harry and Ron. Missing persons lists, comments on the charms Malfoy had clearly used to make himself untraceable, rumours he'd heard at school about how Pansy Parkinson kept a lock of his hair around her neck (later proven false) even a very poorly drawn cartoon of Malfoy as a muggle beggar on the streets of London.

A few more pages and he found a picture of Pansy Parkinson shaking hands with Hermione. He grinned. She'd turned up on their doorstep, proclaiming that she'd had enough of her family's fanatical devotion to someone who looked more like a snake than a person, to the mistrust of all. They'd welcomed her very warily at first, but after she'd spent three hours in a windowless room with only Mad-Eye Moody and a bottle of Veritaserum for company the Order had been more willing to accept her proffered help, especially when Hermione explained what little progress they'd made on the Malfoy Hunt. She'd been taken on by him and Hermione and from then on the three of them barely left that library beyond meals and sleeping.

At first it had worried them, the utter devotion with which Pansy applied herself to the task. She knew every corridor she'd ever been shown in Malfoy Manor off by heart, she could tell you exactly how much money would be coming into the family account without Lucius even having to get out of bed, she knew that even if the Gringotts goblins _would_ concede to lock up the Malfoy accounts the family still had their own vault hidden somewhere below the Manor where any money they passed hands outside the usual, more acceptable, circles in society was kept along with ten centuries of hoarded gold, she knew what colour the pillows in Draco's bedroom would be on the second fortnight of the month and how many rose bushes were likely to be in bloom at that time of year in the gardens. She knew Draco's routine down to the minute when he was at Hogwarts and gave an immediate list of possible allies he could be hiding with since his break from Snape. She knew so much that he sometimes worried that she was making it up, because, seriously, there was only so much you could know about a person, wasn't there?

It soon became apparent that Pansy Parkinson thought herself hopelessly in love with Draco Malfoy, and she knew better than any of them what would happen if the other side found him first. As a result she threw every little scrap of information at Hermione, as and when she thought of it, hoping that any one of these remembered facts could be the one that led them to him.

It was from this section onward that Felix really wanted the book. Pages upon pages of Pansy's writing with every little scrap of information she could remember about Draco Malfoy. It was occasionally interrupted with a page from the 'Greengrass Directory of Esteemed Pureblood Families And Their Descendants (Eighteenth Century Edition)' that he'd spent a week pouring over trying to detect any break in the Malfoy line that could lead to surviving relatives they weren't aware of, or a letter from Hermione from wherever her and the boys were that week summarising a vague theory. He flicked through a few more pages. Hermione's writing appeared again, which meant that the second last Horcrux had been found and it was the final dash up to the end of the war in which all their efforts were poured into finding one man, He flicked past a few more pages, stopping as a magical photograph fell out.

It was Pansy's, one she took with her practically everywhere (though would violently protest that she did not). It showed Draco Malfoy in what must have been their sixth year at Hogwarts, sitting by the lake with Pansy grinning at his elbow. The boy smirked confidently at the camera and he girl positively glowed at the attention he was giving her, every few seconds he'd lean over and whisper something in her ear and she'd giggle pathetically. Felix turned the photo over and sure enough on the back it read 'September – sixth year'. Frowning he bought the parchment over to the muggle paper print out of the photo that had been up on Interpol the previous day. There was a lifetime of difference in the two faces - he almost shuddered. Next to the moving smiling picture from Hogwarts the mug shot of Malfoy looked even more like a corpse with the lack of movement in the still muggle picture. His eye sockets were hollow, like an Azkaban inmate. Shaking his head he slotted the photo back in the book and kept flicking until he came across what he was really looking for. The logs of the murders they'd found connected to him.

-

It was the second time he'd woken up to the sound of her voice.

The room was light again and he could hear the soft drone of Granger speaking in the background. It didn't take him long to realise that she thought he was still asleep.

"You know, I can see thestrals because of you."

Making every effort not more move or make a sound he slowly opened his eyes, blinking slowly before focussing on her form silhouetted against the open doorway. She had an almost angelic halo about her head and he almost laughed at the thought of it. He didn't though, and she didn't notice him awake, just kept talking like she'd waited years to get it off her chest.

"I'd never even seen a dead body before Dumbledore. God, that night. When Harry told us what he'd seen. I was so scared. Because the moment you walked into that tower it was real. We couldn't stay locked away in our little castle and pretend it wasn't happening to us anymore. It wasn't something we could label as someone else's problem… not that we ever did. But I think a small part of me was still pretending that we were safe so long as Hogwarts stood. But Hogwarts was still standing and we weren't safe. And that was your fault."

She took a deep breath. Fists clenching in the corners of his vision.

"And then, up in the moors. That place in Yorkshire, the cottage I think you lived in for a bit. The bodies there. We only found out because of the muggle police.,,"

-

Felix stared hard at the page.

Pictures of rough northern moorland. A small house on the top of a hill. In the picture muggle lights still flashed on top on muggle police cars and Hermione looked grim as she pointed out something on a map to Ron in the left of the picture.

His eyes shifted to the opposite leaf. A dark room, made darker by the brown curtains hanging over the windows and darker still by the three bodies laid out on the floor. He wasn't sure how they'd managed to get this photo. Tonks must have taken it, because he was in the shot, dressed in muggle police uniform and looking fit to puke at the sight before him. That bought back memories he'd rather forget. Hermione sobbing into her boyfriend's shoulder, the reality of what they were looking at enough to stop the constant bickering between the two, Tonks' hair back in its natural black as she scanned the room, face hardened against the crime she was analysing. 'Seven hours ago,' she had said. 'And I can't trace any apparation.'

-

He felt nothing as he listened to her. She was close to crying and he didn't feel a thing. Just confusion maybe, that they'd found out. That they'd been that close behind.

"And then in west London. I could hear your footsteps but I couldn't follow because- It was like she was suspended mid air. That woman. I never found out who she was. Was she a prostitute? Was that why you were there? Not like it matters now, but still. I came through the door and she was just hanging there with that sickly green light all over the room and then suddenly she was crashing into the floor and she was dead and Felix was running after you and all I could do was follow him, even though… I saw what it was I was riding on on the way home. Thestrals had never looked so ugly."

-

Felix turned the page again, this time to the body of a woman, still warm on the dark blue carpet. They never found out her name. He barely remembered that room; he'd dashed through it so fleetingly at the sound of Malfoy's retreating footsteps. But the older boy escaped still; apparated just beyond the barriers he and Hermione had poured so much effort into putting up. He turned the page and looked at a picture of the map Pansy had drawn of Malfoy Manor, but his mind still lingered on that evening when he'd had to lead Hermione, practically by the hand, back to the HQ. She'd been so shell-shocked – it had scared the hell out of him. It was only months later that she told him that was the first time she'd ever seen anyone die.

-

"I've never forgiven you for the things you made me see. I only saw my parents once that year. For Christmas. It was horrible. They cried a lot because apparently I'd changed. And maybe I had. They didn't understand it at all. They thought I was doing it for Harry. Which I was, to some extent… But they didn't realise that _really_ I was doing it for myself. They didn't realise that if I didn't fight that war that everything I'd ever achieved at Hogwarts would be nothing, because I'd be branded as inferior to _you_."

She spat out the word and he wondered if he should be flinching.

"I found out some of the things your father did. And I don't mean the dark objects and stuff, because was all knew about that anyway, I mean the really, _really _bad stuff. And after we won. We went round your house and it was so obvious, and yet no one had seen it because no one had wanted to and that scared me so much. It made me _think_ so much more about everything…"

-

He kept flicking. Picture after picture. Corpse after corpse. They'd become immune, like Tonks as she clinically analysed the scene. They treated each one as a clue rather than the body of someone who'd _lived_ only a few hours previously. There was photo after photo and then a page that boasted the front page of the _Daily Prophet_.

'_Youngest Malfoy Dead'._

He wondered now who framed it. Was it Malfoy or his family? They'd never been able to get to the corpse, something that drove Pansy to bouts of hysteria so frequently that Mrs Weasley spent as much time complaining about her as she did about the portrait of Mrs Black. They said his body had washed up in some canal, but it was intercepted well before the Order could do anything to find it. From then on the book was scarcely written in, the odd game of hangman or note from Fred or George and then in the back a handful of cut outs from when the war was won, and that was it.

Looking back it had been such an anticlimax he was almost glad the case had been reopened.

-

"You know, when your body was found I wanted nothing more than to march right up to your corpse and bloody well kill you again. A year of my life wasted and you got yourself _murdered_. I was so angry… But then the war carried on and even Pansy got over it. More quickly than you'd probably like to believe." She laughed. It was cold. "For those few months our world revolved around finding you and then suddenly you were gone. And from then on out the war went so quickly, a handful of weeks, coasting on adrenaline I think. We won though. And life went on as though you never existed. I forgot how much damage you really caused until Dr Grey contacted me last week. I think I'd even forgotten who you were for the most part. But you're back now," her voice was only a little bitter, "And it's all gone back down hill…"

There was a heavy pause in which he raised his head to look at her. She was still staring at the floor and he braced himself for her eyes meeting his.

She looked up and froze.

"Feel better now?" he rasped.

"What?" she stammered, wand in hand before she'd even registered what he'd said.

"Did your little monologue help?" he clarified, glaring so hard he could almost have been back at Hogwarts, retorting to some name she'd called his dad.

"Because if your _quite_ done with your little self-pitying bout perhaps you'll be willing to, I don't know, _loosen the spell on my fucking arms_. Or offer me some food?"

She blinked. Half-turning to the door, but not enough to actually turn her back on him. Where was Ron when you really needed him, she wondered, but then she looked back at Malfoy, staring defiantly as though he was something more than the image of a corpse they'd never found.

"You're hungry?" It was the only thing she could find to say.

He just looked at her, and then nodded condescendingly.

"Right," she muttered, "I'll go… get some toast."

Retreating towards the kitchen, door firmly closed between them she allowed her shoulders to sag. Great. He'd heard her. And now she was going to have to hand feed him breakfast because she was too scared to undo his arms. Brilliant.

-

The powder pink adorned woman in the powder pink adorned room sat back in a self-contented manner, looking smugly at the sheets of neatly typed parchment before her. Rolling them up and tying them with a length of powder pink ribbon she scribbled a neat address on the front, walking over to the widow where a white barn owl sat in its dainty silver cage.

"To the _Prophet_, please," she cooed at the bird and dutifully it swept out of the window.

Turning back to her desk she swept up her Quick-Quotes notes, dumping them unceremoniously in the bin. '_Flower on the Wall'_ had been running for just over a year now. It was a weekly column in the _Sunday Prophet_ and also appeared on Wednesdays in _Witch Weekly_. She was quick to tell anyone that it was one of the best loved sections of the paper and she had a great deal of response from Ministry workers wishing to sell their office-stories. But she only took the best. And what Harry Potter's secretary had come up with this time was sure to make her very high profile indeed.

'Flower on the Wall' was in short a Ministry gossip column, usually speculating about the affairs of the Wizengamot, but a scandal with two of Harry Potter's closest friends? This could be dragged out for weeks. Pansy wasn't called the new Rita Skeeter for nothing. This had real firework potential, especially if what Jasmine had said about the Weasleys not knowing yet was true. 

Smiling to herself and humming a pretty little tune Pansy picked up a magazine and started planning what to spend the obscene amount of money she'd be getting this time on.

-

**AN:** I have a second identity on this website now; it's in a different fandom and everything. Cool, no? No? You're probably right, but _last_ year's resolution was to get a life. This year I have to learn to drive.

_**If you've read it, please review it!**_


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